.1.    V.-"' 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT    OF 


n 


PATHWAY 

TO 

WESTERN  LITERATURE 


BY 

NETTIE  S.  GAINES 

Teacher  in  City  Schools  of 
Stockton,  California 


Cover  Design  by  W.  S.  RICE 


Stockton,  California 

NETTIE  S.  GAINES 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT  1910  BY 
NETTIE    S.    GAINES 


CONTENTS 


A  STABTLING  ADVENTURE — 

J.  Ross  Browne 1 

BBOWN  WOLF — 

Jack  London  ^. 9 

COLUMBUS  (Poem)  — 

Joaquin  Miller  /. 16 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SPANISH  HQME — 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson U< 18 

INDIAN  BASKETBY — 

Ella  Higginson  22 

AN  ENGINEEBING  TBIUMPH — 

Dan  De  Quille 30 

NOBILITY  (Poem)— 

Richard  Realf  38 

A  UNIQUE  HOUSE — 

W.  C.  Bartlett 39 

IN  BLOSSOM  TIME — 

Ina  Coolbrith   ..U 40 

AUTUMN  IN  SOUTHERN  CALIFOBNIA — 

Theodore  Van  Dyke 41 

LEAF  AND  BLADE  (Poem) — 

Ina  Coolbrith   45 

ASCENT  OF  MT.  TYNDALL— 

Clarence  King  46 

TRIP  TO  THE  FARALLONES — 

Charles  Keeler   53 

THE  OAKS  OF  TULARE  (Poem)  — 

Lillian  H.  Shuey 59 


292639 


iv  Contents 


FROM  YUMA  TO  SALTON  SEA — 

George  Wharton  James ^ 60 

LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE  (Poem)  — 

Edwin  Markham  r^. 71 

THE  DESEET'S  CALL — 

Mary  Austin   ^.. 73 

THE  GREAT  BASIN — 

Col.  John  C.  Fremont X 75 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  TRAIL  (Poem)— 

Henry  Meade  Bland 83 

ON  AN  ALASKAN  TRAIL — 

Ella  Higginson 84 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  DESERT — 

Idah  Meacham  Strobridge 97 

HEIMWEH  (Poem) — 

Lowell  Otus  Reese 100 

SAN   FRANCISCO'S   CHINATOWN    BEFORE    THE    EARTH 
QUAKE — 
Frank  Norms  102 

ADVENTURES  OF  THE  'FORTY-NINERS — 

Wm.  Lewis  Manly 107 

How  SANTA  GLAUS  CAME  TO  SIMPSON'S  BAR — 

Bret  Harte  113 

THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETA — 

Gertrude  Atherton  119 

THE  OVERLAND  FLYER  (Poem)  — 

Charles  Keeler 125 

A  BREEZE  FROM  THE  WOODS — 

W.  C.  Bartlett 126 

SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA  BEFORE  THE  BOOM — 

Theodore  Van  Dyke 129 


Contents 


THE  LUBE  OF  THE  TRAIL— 

Stewart  Edward  White... -^ 139 

BEX  FRANKLIN — 

James  C.  Adams 113 

THE  MARIPOSA  LILY  (Poem)  — 

Ina  Coolbrith   ". 148 

THIBST  OF  THE  DONNEB  PABTY — 

C.  T.  McGlashan 149 

STARVATION  OF  THE  DON  NEB  PARTY — 

C.  T.  McGlashan 153 

A  SONG  OF  AUTUMN  (Poem) — 

Henry  Meade  Bland 157 

SAN  GABRIEL  VALLEY — 

Theodore  Van  Dyke 158 

THE  POET'S  WEALTH  (Poem)  — 

Richard  Realf 161 

THE  ASCENT  OF  MT.  RAINIER — 

Ada  Woodruff  Anderson 162 

To  THE  PIONEERS  THAT  REMAIN  (Poem)  — 

A.  J.  Waterhouse 178 

THE  LOVE  MASTER — 

Jack  London  . .  \ 179 

FATHER  SALVIEBDERRA'S  FAITH — 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson -s. 188 

"Two  BITS"  (Poem)  — 

Sharlott  M.  Hall 195 

FEBNS  AND  FEBNEBIES — 

Belle  Sumner  Angier 198 

THE  WHEAT — 

Frank  Norris   .  .  200 


vi  Contents 


PAGE 

NIGHTTIME  IN  CALIFORNIA  (Poem) — 

A.  J.  Water-house 210 

SON  OF  COPPER  SIN — 

Herman  Whitaker 212 

OCTOBER  CLOUDS  (Poem)  — 

Mary  B.  Williams 221. 

HUMMERS — 

Florence  A.  Merriam 222 

THE  FOOTHILLS — 

Stewart  Edward  White. 231 

"THE  JOY  OF  THE  HILLS"  (Poem)  — 

Edwin  Markham  234 

DESERT  ANIMALS — 

John  C.  Van  Dyke 235 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CHINA  LILY — 

Idah  Meacham  Strobridge 238 


PEEFACE 

Western  geography  and  history  are  slowly  but 
surely  gaining  their  rightful  place  in  the  public 
school  system  throughout  the  country. 

For  a  number  of  years  the  compiler  of  this  book 
has  been  deeply  interested  in  the  literature  of  the 
West  and  has  directed  her  efforts  toward  having  it 
carried  along  side  by  side  with  the  history  and 
geography  with  which  it  is  so  closely  allied. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  source  of  much  gratification 
when  James  A.  Barr,  City  Superintendent  of  the 
Stockton  schools,  suggested  that  a  book  be  compiled 
composed  of  extracts  from  the  works  of  Western 
writers  to  be  used  as  a  Supplementary  Reader,  for 
she  believed  that  in  this  way  children  would  not 
only  gain  power  in  reading,  but  that  they  would 
gradually  come  to  possess  a  loyalty  and  love  for  all 
things  Western. 

With  this  thought  constantly  in  mind,  the  work 
required  to  compile  such  a  book  has  been  relieved 
of  its  arduousness  and  the  task  has  been  one  of 
great  pleasure  and  profit. 

It  has  been  the  aim  to  make  the  collection  repre 
sentative  of  the  coast,  full  of  local  color  from  pio 
neer  days  to  the  present. 

Many  short  extracts  have  been  selected  rather 
than  a  few  long  ones,  hoping  that  a  broader  field 
may  be  covered.  A  small  amount  of  preparation 
by  the  teacher  will  enable  her  to  give  a  setting  for 
any  selection.  This  will  not  be  required  for  all,  as 


viii  Preface 

a  number  are  complete  within  themselves.  After 
the  children's  interest  in  a  selection  has  been  se 
cured,  then  is  the  time  when  the  author  should  re 
ceive  recognition,  and  every  teacher  in  our  schools 
should  welcome  this  opportunity  of  making  the  chil 
dren  appreciative  of  Western  writers. 

It  has  not  been  deemed  advisable  to  classify  con 
tents,  as  the  book  is  designed  for  use  in  the  sixth, 
seventh  and  eighth  grades  in  connection  with  the 
history  and  geography  of  the  West.  Thus  the 
teacher  will  use  her  own  judgment  as  to  the  best 
means  of  correlation. 

Before  submitting  the  manuscript  of  this  book  to 
the  publishers,  representative  extracts  were  sent  to 
city  and  county  superintendents,  as  well  as  to  a 
number  of  teachers,  to  be  passed  upon.  The  com 
mendations  received  assure  the  success  of  the  un 
dertaking. 

While  all  extracts  are  from  the  Avorks  of  Western 
writers,  yet  it  is  hoped  that  the  appeal  of  the  book 
will  not  be  confined  to  the  West  nor  even  to  the  con 
fines  of  the  school  room  alone. 

The  compiler  of  this  book  wishes  to  express  deep 
appreciation  to  the  following  publishing  houses  for 
their  courtesy  in  granting  certain  copyright  privil 
eges:  The  Macmillan  Company  for  selections  by 
Jack  London,  Gertrude  Atherton  and  Ella  Higgin- 
son;  Little,  Brown  &  Company  for  selections  by 
George  Wharton  James  and  Ada  Woodruff  Ander 
son;  Harper  &  Brothers  for  selections  by  Herman 
Whitaker  and  J.  Ross  Browne;  Houghton  Mifflin 
&  Company  for  selections  by  Bret  Harte,  Florence 
A.  Merriam  and  Mary  Austin ;  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Company  for  selections  by  Stewart  Edward  White, 


Preface  ix 

Edwin  Markham  and  Frank  Norris ;  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons  for  selections  by  John  C.  Van  Dyke  and 
Clarence  King;  Paul  Elder  &  Company  for  selec 
tions  by  Charles  Keeler  and  Belle  Sunnier  Angler, 
and  Funk  "VYagnalls  Company  for  poems  by  Rich 
ard  Realf. 

Special  permission  has  been  granted  by  the  fol 
lowing  persons  and  to  them  the  compiler  is  deeply 
indebted  also:  Charles  Keeler,  Ina  Coolbrith,  C.  F. 
McGlashan,  Lillian  Hinman  Shuey,  Theodore  Hit- 
tell,  W.  E.  Bartlett,  Theodore  Van  Dyke,  Idah 
Meachani  Strobridge,  A.  J.  AYaterhouse,  Henry 
Meade  Bland,  Mary  B.  Williams,  Lowell  Otus 
Reese,  Joaquin  Miller,  Sharlott  Hall;  Out  West 
Magazine  and  Pacific  Monthly  Magazine  for  illus 
trations. 


INTBODUCTION 

To  present  to  the  youth  of  California  adequate 
selections  from  the  writings  of  the  best  authors  of 
the  State  is  a  laudable  endeavor.  I  have  long  hoped 
to  see  it  done.  Why  should  our  children's  study 
of  Literature  be  confined  to  the  works  of  English 
and  Eastern  authors  to  the  exclusion  of  the  wealth 
of  prose  and  poetry  produced  in  the  West.  Cali 
fornia  has  made  itself  felt  with  dignity  and  power, 
as  well  as  native  force  and  originality,  in  the  litera 
ture  of  the  English-speaking  world  and  it  is  appro 
priate  that  its  literary  contributions  be  placed  be 
fore  the  future  citizenship  of  the  State. 

As  I  have  constantly  affirmed,  so  I  sincerely  be 
lieve  that  California  has  a  wonderful  destiny  as 
the  location  of  the  highest  civilization  yet  to  be 
born,  and  this  destiny  is  clearly  foreshadowed  in 
its  literature.  Its  geographic  isolation,  its  topo 
graphic  cosmos,  the  climatic  and  scenic  environ 
ment  it  affords,  the  pioneer  basis  of  its  civilization, 
all  point  to  this  exalted  destiny. 

It  is  well,  therefore,  that  its  youth  should  be 
made  familiar  with  what  is  their  grave  responsibil 
ity  and  glorious  opportunity. 

Mrs.  Gaines  has  exercised  great  care  in  making 
the  selections  of  this  volume,  and  that  many  of 
them  are  my  own  especial  favorites  that  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  introducing  to  her  does  not  lessen  my 
gratification  in  seeing  them  gathered  together  in 
this  form. 


xii  Introduction 

The  book  as  a  whole  will  delight  and  interest  as 
well  as  inform  and  inspire  the  children  who  read 
it.  Other  volumes  undoubtedly  will  soon  follow 
and  thus  the  mine  of  the  rich  literary  treasures  of 
California  be  at  least  indicated  to  those  to  whom  it 
is  a  natural  inheritance. 

GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES, 
Thanksgiving  Day,  1909. 

Pasadena,  California. 


i 


A  STARTLING  ADVENTURE 

BY  J.  Ross  BROWNE 

DESCENDED  several  of  these  shafts  rather  to 
oblige  my  friend  the  Judge  than  to  satisfy  any 
curiosity  I  had  on  the  subject  myself.  This  thing 
of  being  dropped  down  two  hundred  feet  into  the 
bowels  of  the  earth  in  wooden  buckets,  and  hoisted 
out  by  blind  horses  attached  to  "  whims, "  may  be 
very  amusing  to  read  about,  but  I  have  enjoyed 
pleasanter  modes  of  locomotion.  There  was  one 
shaft  in  particular  that  left  an  indelible  impression 
upon  my  mind — so  much  so,  indeed,  that  I  am  as 
tonished  every  hair  in  my  head  is  not  quite  gray. 
It  was  in  the  San  Antonia,  a  mine  in  which  the 
Judge  held  an  interest,  in  connection  with  a  worthy 
Norwegian  by  the  name  of  Jansen.  As  I  had  trav 
eled  in  Norway,  Jansen  was  enthusiastic  in  his  de 
votion  to  my  enjoyment — declared  he  would  go 
down  with  me  himself  and  show  me  everything 
worth  seeing — even  to  the  lower  level  just  opened. 
While  I  was  attempting  to  frame  an  excuse  the  hon 
est  Norwegian  had  lighted  a  couple  of  candles,  giv 
en  directions  to  one  of  the  "boys"  to  look  out  for 
the  old  blind  horse  attached  to  the  ''whim,"  and 
now  stood  ready  at  the  mouth  of  the  shaft  to  guide 
me  into  the  subterranean  regions. 

"Mr.  Jansen,"  said  I,  looking  with  horror  at  the 
rickety  wooden  bucket  and  the  flimsy  little  rope 
that  was  to  hold  us  suspended  between  the  surface 
of  the  earth  and  eternity,  "is  that  rope  strong?" 

"Well,  I  think  it's  strong  enough  to  hold  us," 


2  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

replied  Jansen ;  ' '  it  carries  a  ton  of  ore.  We  don 't 
weigh  a  ton,  I  guess. ' ' 

"But  the  bucket  looks  fearfully  battered.  And 
who  can  vouch  that  the  old  horse  won't  run  away 
and  let  us  down  by  the  run?" 

' '  Oh,  sir,  he 's  used  to  it.  That  horse  never  runs. 
You  see,  he 's  fast  asleep  now.  He  sleeps  all  along 
on  the  down  turn.  It's  the  up  turn  that  gets  him. ' ' 

"Mr.  Jansen,"  said  I,  "all  that  may  be  true; 
but  suppose  the  bucket  should  catch  and  drop  us 
out?" 

"Well,  sometimes  it  catches;  but  nobody's  been 
hurt  bad  yet ;  one  man  fell  fifteen  feet  perpendic 
ular.  He  lit  on  the  top  of  his  head. ' ' 

"Wasn't  he  killed?" 

"  No ;  he  was  only  stunned  a  little.  There  was  a 
buzzing  about  among  his  brains  for  a  few  days 
after;  he's  at  work  down  below  now,  as  well  as 
ever. ' ' 

"Mr.  Jansen,  upon  the  whole  I  think  I'd  rather 
go  down  by  the  ladder,  if  it 's  all  the  same  to  you. ' ' 

"Certainly,  sir,  suit  yourself:  only  the  ladder's 
sort  o'  broke  in  spots,  and  you'll  find  it  a  tolerably 
hard  climb  down;  how  so  ever,  I'll  go  ahead  and 
sing  out  when  I  come  to  bad  places. ' ' 

With  this  the  Norwegian  disappeared.  I  looked 
down  after  him.  The  shaft  was  about  four  feet 
square ;  rough,  black  and  dismal,  with  a  small  flick 
ering  light,  apparently  a  thousand  feet  below,  mak 
ing  the  darkness  visible.  It  was  almost  perpendic 
ular;  the  ladders  stood  against  the  near  side, 
perched  on  ledges  or  hanging  together  by  means  of 
chafed  and  ragged-looking  ropes.  I  regretted  that 
I  had  not  taken  Jansen 's  advice  and  committed  my- 


A  Startling  Adventure  3 

self  to  the  bucket ;  but  it  was  now  too  late.  "With  a 
hurried  glance  at  the  bright  world  around  me,  a 
thought  of  home  and  the  unhappy  conditions  of 
widows  and  orphans,  as  a  general  thing,  I  seized 
the  rungs  of  the  ladder  and  took  the  irrevocable 
dive.  Down  I  crept,  rung  after  rung,  ladder  after 
ladder,  in  the  black  darkness,  with  the  solid  walls 
of  rock  pressing  the  air  close  around  me.  Some 
times  I  heard  the  incoherent  muttering  of  voices 
below,  but  could  make  nothing  of  them.  Perhaps 
Jansen  was  warning  me  of  breaks  in  the  ladder; 
perhaps  his  voice  was  split  up  by  the  rocks  and 
sounded  like  many  voices ;  or  it  might  be  there  were 
gnomes  whisking  about  in  the  dark  depths  below. 
Down  and  still  down  I  crept,  slower  and  slower, 
for  I  was  getting  tired,  and  I  fancied  there  might 
be  poisonous  gases  in  the  air.  "When  I  had  reached 
the  depth  of  a  thousand  feet,  as  it  seemed,  but 
about  a  hundred  and  forty  as  it  was  in  reality,  the 
thought  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  beginning  to 
get  alarmed.  In  truth  I  was  shaking  like  a  man 
with  the  ague.  Suppose  I  should  become  nervous 
and  lose  my  hold  on  the  ladder?  The  very  idea 
was  enough  to  make  me  shaky.  There  was  an  in 
definite  extent  of  shaft  underneath,  black,  narrow 
and  scraggy,  with  a  solid  base  of  rock  at  the  bot 
tom.  I  did  not  wonder  that  it  caused  a  buzzing  of 
the  brain  to  fall  fifteen  feet  and  light  on  top  of  the 
head.  My  brain  was  buzzing  already,  and  I  had 
not  fallen  yet.  But  the  prospect  to  that  effect  was 
getting  better  and  better  every  moment,  for  I  was 
now  quite  out  of  breath,  and  had  to  stop  and  cling 
around  the  ladder  to  avoid  falling.  The  longer  I 
stood  this  way  the  more  certain  it  became  that  I 


4  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

should  lose  my  balance  and  topple  over.  With  a 
desperate  effort  I  proceeded,  step  after  step,  cling 
ing  to  the  frail  wood-work  as  the  drowning  man 
clings  to  a  straw,  gasping  for  breath,  the  cold 
sweat  streaming  down  my  face,  and  my  jaws  chat 
tering  audibly.  The  breaks  in  the  ladder  were  get 
ting  fearfully  common.  Sometimes  I  found  two 
rungs  gone,  sometimes  six  or  seven,  and  then  I  had 
to  slide  down  by  the  sides  till  my  feet  found  a 
resting  place  on  another  rung  or  some  casual  ledge 
of  rock.  To  Jansen,  or  the  miners  who  worked 
down  in  the  shaft  every  day,  all  of  this,  of  course, 
was  mere  pastime.  They  knew  every  break  and 
resting  place ;  and  besides,  familiarity  with  any  par 
ticular  kind  of  danger  blunts  the  sense  of  it.  I  am 
confident  that  I  could  make  the  same  trip  now 
without  experiencing  any  unpleasant  sensation. 
By  good  fortune  I  at  length  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  shaft,  where  I  found  my  Norwegian  friend  and 
some  three  or  four  workmen  quietly  awaiting  my 
arrival.  A  bucket  of  ore,  containing  some  five  or 
six  hundred  pounds,  was  ready  to  be  hoisted  up. 
It  was  very  nice-looking  ore,  and  very  rich  ore,  as 
Jansen  assured  me ;  but  what  did  I  care  about  ore 
till  I  got  the  breath  back  again  into  my  body  ? 

"Stand  from  under,  sir,"  said  Jansen,  dodging 
into  a  hole  in  the  rocks;  "a  chunk  of  ore  might  fall 
out,  or  the  bucket  might  give  way." 

Stand  from  under  ?  Where  in  the  name  of  sense 
was  a  man  to  stand  in  such  a  hole  as  this,  not  more 
than  six  or  eight  feet  square  at  the  b'ase,  with  a  few 
dark  chasms  in  the  neighborhood  through  which  it 
was  quite  possible  to  be  precipitated  into  the  in 
fernal  regions.  However,  I  stood  as  close  to  the 


A  Startling  Adventure  5 

wall  as  was  possible  without  backing  clean  into  it. 
The  bucket  of  ore  having  gone  up  out  of  sight,  I 
was  now  introduced  to  the  ledge  upon  which  the 
men  were  at  work.  It  was  about  four  feet  thick, 
clearly  defined,  and  apparently  rich  in  the  precious 
metals.  In  some  specimens  which  I  took  out  myself 
gold  was  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  The  indications 
of  silver  were  also  well  marked.  This  was  at  a 
depth  of  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet.  At  the 
bottom  of  this  shaft  there  was  a  loose  flooring  of 
rafters  and  planks. 

"If  you  like,  sir,"  said  Jansen,  "we'll  go  down 
here  and  take  a  look  at  the  lower  drift.  They've 
just  struck  the  ledge  about  forty  feet  below." 

"Are  the  ladders  as  good  as  those  above,  Mr. 
Jansen?"  I  inquired. 

"Oh  yes,  sir;  they're  all  good;  some  of  the  low 
er  ones  may  be  busted  a  little  with  the  blastin ' ;  but 
there's  two  men  down  there.  Guess  they  got  down 
somehow. '  * 

1  ( To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Jansen,  I  'm  not  curi 
ous  about  the  lower  drift.  You  can  show  me  some 
specimens  of  the  ore,  and  that  will  be  quite  satis 
factory.  ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,  but  I'd  like  you  to  see  the  vein  where 
the  drift  strikes  it.  It's  really  beautiful." 

A  beautiful  sight  down  in  this  region  was  worth 
looking  at,  so  I  succumbed.  Jansen  lifted  up  the 
planks,  told  the  men  to  cover  us  well  up  as  soon 
as  we  had  disappeared,  in  order  to  keep  the  ore 
from  the  upper  shaft  from  tumbling  on  our  heads, 
and  then,  diving  down,  politely  requested  me  to  fol 
low.  I  had  barely  descended  a  few  steps  when  the 

massive   rafters  and   planks   were  thrown   across 
2 


6  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

overhead  and  thus  all  exit  to  the  outer  world  was 
cut  off.  There  was  an  oppressive  sensation  in  be 
ing  so  completely  isolated  from  the  outside  world- 
barred  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Yet,  how  many  there  are  who  spend  half  their  lives 
in  such  a  place  for  a  pittance  of  wages  which  they 
squander  in  dissipation!  Surely  it  is  worth  four 
dollars  a  day  to  work  in  these  dismal  holes. 

Bracing  my  nerves  with  such  thoughts  as  these, 
I  scrambled  down  the  rickety  ladders  till  the  last 
rung  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  I  probed  about 
with  a  spare  leg  for  a  landing  place,  but  could 
touch  neither  top,  bottom  nor  sides.  The  ladder 
was  apparently  suspended  in  space  like  Moham 
med's  coffin. 

"Come  on,  sir,"  cried  the  voice  of  Jansen  far 
down  below.  "They're  going  to  blast." 

Pleasant,  if  not  picturesque,  to  be  hanging  by 
two  arms  and  one  leg  to  a  ladder,  squirming  about 
in  search  of  a  foothold,  while  somebody  below  was 
setting  fire  to  a  fuse  with  the  design,  no  doubt,  of 
blowing  up  the  entire  premises ! 

"Mr.  Jansen,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  of  unnatural 
calmness,  while  the  big  drops  of  agony  stood  on 
my  brow,  "there's  no  difficulty  in  saying  'Come 
on,  sir ! '  but  to  do  it  without  an  inch  more  of  ladder 
or  anything  else  that  I  can  see,  requires  both  time 
and  reflection.  How  far  do  you  expect  me  to 
drop?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  let  go,  sir.  Just  hang  on  to  that 
rope  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder,  and  let  yourself 
down. ' ' 

I  hung  on  as  directed  and  let  myself  down.  It 
was  plain  sailing  enough  to  one  who  knew  the 


A  Startling  Adventure  1 

chart.  The  ladder,  it  seemed,  had  been  broken  by 
a  blast  of  rocks ;  and  now  there  was  to  be  another 
blast.  We  retired  into  a  convenient  hole  about  ten 
or  a  dozen  paces  from  the  deposit  of  Hazard's 
powder.  The  blast  went  off  with  a  dead  reverbera 
tion,  causing  a  concussion  in  the  air  that  affected 
one  like  a  shock  of  galvanism ;  and  then  there  was 
a  diabolical  smell  of  brimstone.  Jansen  was 
charmed  at  the  result.  A  mass  of  the  ledge  was 
burst  clean  open.  He  grasped  up  the  blackened 
fragments  of  quartz,  licked  them  with  his  tongue, 
held  them  up  to  the  candle,  and  constantly  ex 
claimed:  ''There,  sir,  there!  Isn't  it  beautiful? 
Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it? — pure  gold,  al 
most — here  it  is! — don't  you  see  it?" 

I  suppose  I  saw  it ;  at  all  events  I  put  some  speci 
mens  in  my  pocket,  and  saw  them  afterward  out  in 
the  pure  sunlight,  where  the  smoke  was  not  so 
dense ;  and  it  is  due  to  the  great  cause  of  truth  to 
say  that  gold  was  there  in  glittering  specks,  as  if 
shaken  over  it  from  a  pepperbox. 

Having  concluded  my  examination  of  the  mine, 
I  took  the  bucket  as  a  medium  of  exit,  being  fully 
satisfied  with  the  ladders.  About  half  way  up  the 
shaft  the  iron  swing  or  handle  to  which  the  rope 
was  attached  caught  in  one  of  the  ladders.  The 
rope  stretched.  I  felt  it  harden  and  grow  thin  in 
my  hands.  The  bucket  began  to  tip  over.  It  was 
pitch  dark  all  around.  Jansen  was  far  below,  com 
ing  up  the  ladder.  Something  seemed  to  be  creak 
ing,  cracking,  or  giving  way.  I  felt  the  rough, 
heavy  sides  of  the  bucket  pi-ess  against  my  legs.  A 
terrible  apprehension  seized  me  that  the  gear  was 
tangled  and  would  presently  snap.  In  the  pitchy 


8  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

darkness  and  the  confusion  of  the  moment  I  could 
not  conjecture  what  was  the  matter.  I  darted  out 
my  hands,  seized  the  ladder  and,  jerking  myself 
high  out  of  the  bucket,  clambered  up  with  the  agil 
ity  of  an  acrobat.  Relieved  of  my  weight,  the  iron 
catch  came  loose,  and  up  came  the  bucket  "Banging 
and  thundering  after  me  with  a  velocity  that  was 
perfectly  frightful.  Never  was  there  such  a  sub 
terranean  chase,  I  verily  believe,  since  the  begin 
ning  of  the  world.  To  stop  a  single  moment  would 
be  certain  destruction,  for  the  bucket  was  large, 
heavy  and  massively  bound  with  iron,  and  the 
space  in  the  shaft  was  not  sufficient  to  admit  of  its 
passing  without  crushing  me  flat  against  the  ladder. 
But  such  a  chase  could  not  last  long.  I  felt  my 
strength  give  way  at  every  lift.  The  distance  was 
too  great  to  admit  the  hope  of  escape  by  climbing. 
My  only  chance  was  to  seize  the  rope  above  the 
bucket  and  hang  on  to  it.  This  I  did.  It  was  a 
lucky  thought — one  of  those  thoughts  that  some 
times  flash  upon  the  mind  like  inspiration  in  a  mo 
ment  of  peril.  Afewmore  revolutions  of  the ' 'whim" 
brought  me  so  near  the  surface  that  I  could  see  the 
bucket  only  a  few  yards  below  my  feet.  The  noise 
of  the  rope  over  the  block  above  reminded  me  that 
I  had  better  slip  down  a  little  to  save  my  hands, 
which  I  did  in  good  style,  and  was  presently  landed 
on  the  upper  crust  of  the  earth,  all  safe  and  sound, 
though  somewhat  dazzled  by  the  light  and  rattled 
by  my  subterranean  experiences. — From  "Adven 
tures  in  the  Apache  Country." 


Brown  Wolf  9 

BROWN  WOLF 

BY  JACK  LONDON 

Klondiker's  face  took  on  a  contemptuous 
1  expression  as  he  said  finally, ' '  I  reckon  there's 
nothin'  in  sight  to  prevent  me  takin'  the  dog  right 
here  an'  now." 

Walt's  face  reddened,  and  the  striking-muscles  of 
his  arms  and  shoulders  seemed  to  stiffen  and  grow 
tense.  His  wife  fluttered  apprehensively  into  the 
breach. 

"Maybe  Mr.  Miller  is  right,"  she  said.  "I  am 
afraid  that  he  is.  Wolf  does  seem  to  know  him, 
and  certainly  he  answers  to  the  name  of  'Brown.' 
He  made  friends  with  him  instantly,  and  you  know 
that's  something  he  never  did  with  anybody  before. 
Besides,  look  at  the  way  he  barked.  He  was  just 
bursting  with  joy.  Joy  over  what?  Without  doubt 
at  finding  Mr.  Miller." 

Walt's  striking-muscles  relaxed,  and  his  shoul 
ders  seemed  to  droop  with  hopelessness. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Madge,"  he  said.  "Wolf 
isn't  Wolf,  but  Brown,  and  he  must  belong  to  Mr. 
Miller." 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Miller  will  sell  him,"  she  sug 
gested.  "We  can  buy  him." 

Skiff  Miller  shook  his  head,  no  longer  belligerent, 
but  kindly,  quick  to  be  generous  in  response  to  gen- 
erousness. 

* *  I  had  five  dogs, '  '  he  said,  casting  about  for  the 
easiest  way  to  temper  his  refusal.  "He  was  the 
leader.  They  was  the  crack  team  of  Alaska. 

[Copyright  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  1906.] 


10  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Nothin'  could  touch  'em.  In  1898  I  refused  five 
thousand  dollars  for  the  bunch.  Dogs  was  high 
then,  anyway;  but  that  wasn't  what  made  the 
fancy  price.  It  was  the  team  itself.  Brown  was 
the  best  in  the  team.  That  winter  I  refused  twelve 
hundred  for  'm.  I  didn't  sell  'm  then  an'  I  ain't 
a-sellin'  'm  now.  Besides,  I  think  a  mighty  lot  of 
that  dog.  I've  ben  lookin'  for  'm  for  three  years. 
It  made  me  fair  sick  when  I  found  he  'd  ben  stole — 
not  the  value  of  him,  but  the — well,  I  liked  'm.  I 
couldn't  believe  my  eyes  when  I  seen  'm  just  now. 
I  thought  I  was  dreamin'.  It  was  too  good  to  be 
true.  Why,  I  was  his  wet-nurse.  I  put  'm  to  bed, 
snug  every  night.  His  mother  died,  and  I  brought 
'm  up  on  condensed  milk  at  two  dollars  a  can  when 
I  couldn't  afford  it  in  my  own  coffee.  He  never 
knew  any  mother  but  me. 

Madge  began  to  speak : 

"But  the  dog,"  she  said.  "You  haven't  consid 
ered  the  dog. ' ' 

Skiff  Miller  looked  puzzled. 

' '  Have  you  thought  about  him  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Don't  know  what  you're  drivin'  at,"  was  the 
response. 

"Maybe  the  dog  has  some  choice  in  the  matter/' 
Madge  went  on.  "Maybe  he  has  his  likes  and  de 
sires.  You  have  not  considered  him.  You  give  him 
no  choice.  It  has  never  entered  your  mind  that 
possibly  he  might  prefer  California  to  Alaska.  You 
consider  only  what  you  like.  You  do  with  him  as 
you  would  with  a  sack  of  potatoes  or  a  bale  of 
hay." 

This  was  a  new  way  of  looking  at  it,  and  Miller 


Brown  Wolf  11 

was  visibly  impressed  as  he  debated  it  in  his  mind. 
Madge  took  advantage  of  his  indecision. 

' '  If  you  really  love  him,  what  would  be  happiness 
to  him  would  be  your  happiness  also, ' '  she  urged. 

Skiff  Miller  continued  to  debate  with  himself, 
and  Madge  stole  a  glance  of  exultation  to  her  hus 
band,  who  looked  back  warm  approval. 

"What  do  you  think?'*  the  Klondiker  suddenly 
demanded. 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  puzzled.  "What  do  you 
mean  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"D'ye  think  he'd  sooner  stay  in  California?" 

She  nodded  her  head  with  positiveness.  "I  am 
sure  of  it." 

Skiff  Miller  again  debated  with  himself,  though 
this  time  aloud,  at  the  same  time  running  his  gaze 
in  a  judicial  way  over  the  mooted  animal. 

"He  was  a  good  worker.  He's  done  a  heap  of 
work  for  me.  He  never  loafed  on  me,  an '  he  was  a 
joe-dandy  at  hammerin'  a  raw  team  into  shape. 
He 's  got  a  head  on  him.  He  can  do  everything  but 
talk.  He  knows  what  you  say  to  him.  Look  at  'm 
now.  He  knows  we're  talkin'  about  him." 

The  dog  was  lying  at  Skiff  Miller's  feet,  head 
close  down  on  paws,  ears  erect  and  listening,  and 
eyes  that  were  quick  and  eager  to  follow  the  sound 
of  speech  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  first  one  and 
then  the  other. 

"An'  there's  a  lot  of  work  in  'm  yet.  He's  good 
for  years  to  come.  An'  I  do  like  him." 

Once  or  twice  after  that  Skiff  Miller  opened  his 
mouth  and  closed  it  again  without  speaking.  Final 
ly  he  said : 

"I'll    tell    you    what    I'll  do.     Your  remarks. 


12  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

ma'am,  has  some  weight  in  them.  The  dog 's  worked 
hard,  and  maybe  he's  earned  a  soft  berth  an'  has 
got  a  right  to  choose.  Anyway,  we'll  leave  it  up  to 
him.  Whatever  he  says  goes.  You  people  stay  right 
here  settin '  down ;  I  '11  say  '  good-bye '  and  walk  off 
casual-like.  If  he  wants  to  stay,  he  can  stay.  If 
he  wants  to  come  with  me,  let  'm  come.  I  won't 
call  'm  to  come  an'  don't  you  call  'm  to  come  back." 

He  looked  with  sudden  suspicion  at  Madge,  and 
added,  "Only  you  must  play  fair.  No  persuadin' 
after  my  back  is  turned. ' ' 

"We'll  play  fair,"  Madge  began,  but  Skiff  Mil 
ler  broke  in  on  her  assurances. 

"I  know  the  ways  of  women,"  he  announced. 
1  ( Their  hearts  is  soft.  When  their  hearts  is  touched 
they're  likely  to  stack  the  cards,  look  at  the  Hot- 
torn  of  the  deck,  an'  lie — beggin'  your  pardon, 
ma'am — I'm  only  discoursin'  about  women  in  gen 
eral." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  Madge  quav 
ered. 

"I  don't  see  as  you've  got  any  call  to  thank 
me, ' '  he  replied ;  * '  Brown  ain  't  decided  yet.  Now, 
you  won 't  mind  if  I  go  away  slow.  It 's  no  more  'n 
fair,  seem'  I'll  be  out  of  sight  inside  a  hundred 
yards." 

Madge  agreed  and  added,  "And  I  promise  you 
faithfully  that  we  won't  do  anything  to  influence 
him." 

"Well,  then,  I  might  as  well  be  gettin'  along," 
Skiff  Miller  said,  in  the  ordinary  tones  of  one  de 
parting. 

At  this  change  in  his  voice,  Wolf  lifted  his  head 


Brown  Wolf  13 

quickly,  and  still  more  quickly  got  to  his  feet  when 
the  man  and  woman  shook  hands.  He  sprang  up 
on  his  hind  legs,  resting  his  fore  paws  on  her  hip 
and  at  the  same  time  licking  Skiff  Miller 's  hand. 
When  the  latter  shook  hands  with  Walt,  Wolf  re 
peated  his  act,  resting  his  weight  on  Walt  and 
licking  both  men's  hands. 

"It  ain't  no  picnic,  I  can  tell  you  that,"  were 
the  Klondiker's  last  words,  as  he  turned  and  went 
slowly  up  the  trail. 

For  the  distance  of  twenty  feet  Wolf  watched 
him  go,  himself  all  eagerness  and  expectancy,  as 
though  waiting  for  the  man  to  turn  and  retrace 
his  steps.  Then,  with  a  quick,  low  whine,  Wolf 
sprang  after  him,  overtook  him,  caught  his  hand 
between  his  teeth  with  reluctant  tenderness  and 
strove  gently  to  make  him  pause. 

Failing  in  this,  Wolf  raced  back  to  where  Walt 
Irvine  sat,  catching  his  eoatsleeve  in  his  teeth  and 
trying  vainly  to  drag  him  after  the  retreating  man. 

Wolf's  perturbation  began  to  wax.  He  desired 
ubiquity.  He  wanted  to  be  in  two  places  at  the 
same  time,  with  the  old  master  and  the  new,  and 
steadily  the  distance  was  increasing.  He  sprang 
about  excitedly,  making  short,  nervous  leaps  and 
twists,  now  toward  one,  now  toward  the  other,  in 
painful  indecision,  not  knowing  his  own  mind,  de 
siring  both  and  unable  to  choose,  uttering  quick, 
sharp  whines  and  Beginning  to  pant. 

He  sat  down  abruptly  on  his  haunches,  thrusting 
his  nose  upward,  his  mouth  opening  and  closing 
with  jerky  movements,  each  time  opening  wider. 
The  jerking  movements  were  in  unison  with  the  re 
current  spasms  that  attacked  the  throat,  each 


14  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

spasm  severer  and  more  intense  than  the  preced 
ing  one.  And  in  accord  with  jerks  and  spasms  the 
larynx  began  to  vibrate,  at  first  silently,  accom 
panied  by  the  rush  of  air  expelled  from  the  lungs, 
then  sounding  a  low,  deep  note,  the  lowest  in  the 
register  of  the  human  ear.  All  this  was  the  nervous 
and  muscular  preliminary  to  howling. 

But  just  as  the  howl  was  on  the  verge  of  burst 
ing  from  the  full  throat,  the  wide  open  mouth  was 
closed,  the  paroxysms  ceased,  and  he  looked  long 
and  steadily  at  the  retreating  man.  Suddenly 
Wolf  turned  his  head,  and  over  his  shoulder  just 
as  steadily  regarded  Walt.  The  appeal  was  un 
answered.  Not  a  word  nor  a  sign  did  the  dog  re 
ceive,  no  suggestion  and  no  clew  as  to  what  his  con 
duct  should  be. 

A  glance  ahead  to  where  the  old  master  was 
nearing  the  curve  of  the  trail  excited  him  again. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  whine,  and  then, 
struck  by  a  new  idea,  turned  his  attention  to 
Madge.  Hitherto  he  had  ignored  her,  but  now, 
both  masters  failing  him,  she  alone  was  left.  He 
went  over  to  her  and  snuggled  his  head  in  her  lap, 
nudging  her  arm  with  his  nose — an  old  trick  of  his 
when  begging  for  favors.  He  backed  away  from 
her  and  began  writhing  and  twisting  playfully, 
curvetting  and  prancing,  half  rearing  and  striking 
his  fore  paws  to  the  earth,  struggling  with  all  his 
body,  from  the  wheedling  eyes  and  flattening  ears 
to  the  wagging  tail,  to  express  the  thought  that  was 
in  him  and  that  was  denied  him  utterance. 

This  too  he  soon  abandoned.  He  was  depressed 
by  the  coldness  of  these  humans  who  had  never 
been  cold  before.  No  response  could  he  draw  from 


Brown  Wolf  15 

them,  no  help  could  he  get.  They  did  not  consider 
him.  They  were  as  dead. 

He  turned  and  silently  gazed  after  the  old  mas 
ter.  Skiff  Miller  was  rounding  the  curve.  In  a 
moment  he  would  be  gone  from  view.  Yet  he 
never  turned  his  head,  plodding  straight  onward, 
slowly  and  methodically,  as  though  possessed  of  no 
interest  in  what  was  occurring  behind  his  Hack. 

And  in  this  fashion  he  went  out  of  view.  Wolf 
waited  for  him  to  reappear.  He  waited  a  long 
minute,  quietly,  silently  without  movement,  as 
though  turned  to  stone — withal  stone  quick  with 
eagerness  and  desire.  He  barked  once,  and  waited. 
Then  he  turned  and  trotted  back  to  Walt  Irvine. 
He  sniffed  his  hand  and  dropped  down  heavily  at 
his  feet,  watching  the  trail  where  it  curved  emptily 
from  view. 

The  tiny  stream  slipping  down  the  mossy-lipped 
stone  seemed  suddenly  to  increase  the  volume  of  its 
gurgling  noise.  Save  for  the  meadow-larks,  there 
was  no  other  sound.  The  great  yellow  butterflies 
drifted  silently  through  the  sunshine  and  lost  them 
selves  in  the  drowsy  shadows.  Madge  gazed  tri 
umphantly  at  her  husband. 

A  few  minutes  later  Wolf  got  upon  his  feet. 
Decision  and  deliberation  marked  his  movements. 
He  did  not  glance  at  the  man  and  woman.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  up  the  trail.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind.  They  knew  it.  And  they  knew,  so  far  as 
they  were  concerned,  that  the  ordeal  had  just  be 
gun. 

He  broke  into  a  trot  and  Madge's  lips  pursed, 
forming  an  avenue  for  the  caressing  sound  that  it 
was  the  will  of  her  to  send  forth.  But  the  caressing 


16  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

sound  was  not  made.  She  was  impelled  to  look  at 
her  husband,  and  she  saw  the  sternness  with  which 
he  watched  her.  The  pursed  lips  relaxed,  and  she 
sighed  inaudibly. 

Wolf's  trot  broke  into  a  run.  Wider  and  wider 
were  the  leaps  he  made.  Not  once  did  he  turn  his 
head,  his  wolf 's  brush  standing  out  straight  behind 
him.  He  cut  sharply  across  the  curve  of  the  trail 
and  was  gone. — From  "Love  of  Life." 


COLUMBUS 

BY  JOAQUIN  MILLER 

BEHIND  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 
Behind  the  gates  of  Hercules ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores ; 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:    "Now  must  we  pray, 

For  lo !  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  AdmVl,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?" 
"Why,  say :  ' Sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! ' 


' '  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day ; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak. ' ' 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  AdmVl,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
' '  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day : 

t  Sail  on !  sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! '  " 


[Copyrighted  by  the  Whitaker  &  Ray  Company,  1897. 
From  "Joaquin  Miller's  Poems."  Published  by  Whit- 
aker-Ray-Wiggin  Co.] 


UNIVERSITY 
r 


Columbus  17 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said : 
'  *  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  AdmVl;  speak  and  say" — 

He  said :    ' '  Sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! " 

They  sailed.    They  sailed.    Then  spake  the  mate : 

*  *  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite ! 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  say  but  one  good  word; 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword : 

"Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  paced  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.    Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights  !    And  then  a  speck — 

A  light !  A  light !   At  last  a  light !  A  light ! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson :    * '  On !  sail  on ! " 

—From  "Book  of  Poems." 


18  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SPANISH  HOME 

By  HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON 

HPHE  Senora  Moreno's  house  was  one  of  the  best 
1  specimens  to  be  found  in  California  of  the 
representative  house  of  the  half  barbaric,  half  ele 
gant,  wholly  generous  and  free-handed  life  led 
there  by  Mexican  men  and  women  of  degree  in  the 
early  part  of  this  century,  under  the  rule  of  the 
Spanish  and  Mexican  viceroys,  when  the  laws  of 
the  Indies  were  still  the  law  of  the  land,  and  its  old 
name,  "New  Spain,"  was  an  ever-present  link  and 
stimulus  to  the  warmest  memories  and  deepest  pa 
triotisms  of  its  people. 

It  was  a  picturesque  life,  with  more  of  sentiment 
and  gayety  in  it,  more,  also,  that  was  truly  dramatic, 
more  romance,  than  will  ever  be  seen  again  on 
those  sunny  shores.  The  aroma  of  it  all  lingers 
there  still;  industries  and  inventions  have  not  yet 
slain  it ;  it  will  last  out  its  century — in  fact  it  can 
never  be  quite  lost,  so  long  as  there  is  left  standing 
one  such  house  as  the  Senora  Moreno's. 

When  the  house  was  built  Senora  Moreno  owned 
all  the  land  within  a  radius  of  forty  miles — forty 
miles  westward,  down  the  valley  to  the  sea;  forty 
miles  eastward  into  the  San  Fernando  Mountains; 
and  a  good  forty  miles,  more  or  less,  along  the  coast. 
The  boundaries  were  not  very  strictly  defined; 
there  was  no  occasion  in  those  happy  days  to  reckon 
land  by  inches.  It  might  be  asked,  perhaps,  just 
how  General  Moreno  owned  all  this  land,  and  the 
question  might  not  be  easy  to  answer.  It  was  not 
and  could  not  be  answered  to  the  satisfaction  of 


The  Passing  of  the  Spanish  Home  19 

the  United  States  Land  Commission,  which,  after 
the  surrender  of  California,  undertook  to  sift  and 
adjust  Mexican  land  titles,  and  that  was  the  way  it 
had  come  about  that  the  Seiiora  Moreno  now  called 
herself  a  poor  woman.  Tract  after  tract,  her  lands 
had  been  taken  away  from  her ;  it  looked  for  a  time 
as  if  nothing  would  be  left.  Every  one  of  the 
claims  based  on  deeds  of  gift  from  Governor  Pio 
Pico,  her  husband's  most  intimate  friend,  was  dis 
allowed.  They  all  went  by  the  board  in  one  batch, 
and  took  away  from  the  Senora  in  a  day  the  great 
er  part  of  her  best  pasture  lands.  They  were  lands 
which  had  belonged  to  the  Buenaventura  Mission, 
and  lay  along  the  coast  at  the  mouth  of  the  valley 
down  which  the  little  stream  which  ran  past  her 
house  went  to  the  sea;  and  it  had  been  a  great 
pride  and  delight  to  the  Senora,  when  she  was 
young,  to  ride  that  forty  miles  by  her  husband's 
side,  all  the  way  on  their  own  lands,  straight  from 
their  house  to  their  own  strip  of  shore.  No  wonder 
she  believed  the  Americans  thieves,  and  spoke  of 
them  always  as  hounds.  The  people  of  the  United 
States  have  never  in  the  least  realized  that  the  tak 
ing  possession  of  California  was  not  only  a  con 
quering  of  Mexico,  but  a  conquering  of  California 
as  well;  that  the  real  bitterness  of  the  surrender 
was  not  so  much  to  the  empire  which  gave  up  the 
country,  as  to  the  country  itself  which  was  given 
up.  Provinces  passed  back  and  forth  in  that  way, 
helpless  in  the  hands  of  great  powers,  have  all  the 
ignominy  and  humiliation  of  defeat,  with  none  of 
the  dignities  or  compensation  of  the  transaction. 

Mexico  saved  much  by  her  treaty,  in  spite  of  having 
to  acknowledge  herself  beaten;  but  California  lost 


20  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

all.  Words  cannot  tell  the  sting  of  such  a  trans 
fer.  It  is  a  marvel  that  a  Mexican  remained  in  the 
country ;  probably  none  did,  except  those  who  were 
absolutely  forced  to  it. 

Luckily  for  the  Sefiora  Moreno  her  title  to  the 
lands  midway  in  the  valley  was  better  than  to 
those  lying  to  the  east  and  to  the  west,  which  had 
once  belonged  to  the  missions  of  San  Fernando 
and  Buenaventura ;  and  after  all  the  claims,  coun 
terclaims,  petitions,  appeals  and  adjudications  were 
ended,  she  still  was  left  in  undisputed  possession 
of  what  would  have  been  thought  by  any  new 
comer  into  the  country  to  be  a  handsome  estate, 
but  which  seemed  to  the  despoiled  and  indignant 
Sefiora  a  pitiful  fragment  of  one.  Moreover,  she 
declared  that  she  would  never  feel  secure  of  a  foot 
of  even  this.  Any  day,  she  said,  the  United  States 
Government  might  send  out  a  new  land  commis 
sion  to  examine  the  decrees  of  the  first,  and  revoke 
such  as  they  saw  fit.  Once  a  thief,  always  a  thief. 
Nobody  need  feel  himself  safe  under  American 
rule.  There  was  no  knowing  what  might  happen 
any  day ;  and  year  by  year  the  lines  of  sadness,  re 
sentment,  anxiety  and  antagonism  deepened  on  the 
Sefiora 's  fast  aging  face. 

It  gave  her  unspeakable  satisfaction  when  the 
commissioners,  laying  out  a  road  down  the  valley, 
ran  it  at  the  back  of  her  house  instead  of  past  the 
front.  "It  is  well,"  she  said.  "Let  their  travel  be 
where  it  belongs,  behind  our  kitchens;  and  no  one 
have  sight  of  our  front  doors,  except  friends  who 
have  come  to  visit  us."  Her  enjoyment  of  this 
never  flagged.  Whenever  she  saw,  passing  the 
place,  wagons  or  carriages  belonging  to  the  hated 


The  Passing  of  the  Spanish  Home  21 

Americans,  it  gave  her  a  distinct  thrill  of  pleasure 
to  think  that  the  house  turned  its  back  on  them. 
She  would  like  always  to  be  able  to  do  the  same 
herself ;  but  whatever  she,  by  policy  or  in  business, 
might  be  forced  to  do,  the  old  house,  at  any  rate, 
would  always  keep  the  attitude  of  contempt — its 
face  turned  away. 

One  other  pleasure  she  provided  herself  with, 
soon  after  this  road  was  opened — a  pleasure  in 
which  religious  devotion  and  race  antagonism  were 
so  closely  blended  that  it  would  have  puzzled  the 
subtlest  of  priests  to  decide  whether  her  act  was  a 
sin  or  a  virtue.  She  caused  to  be  set  up,  upon 
every  one  of  the  soft  rounded  hills  which  made  the 
beautiful  rolling  sides  of  that  part  of  the  valley, 
a  large  wooden  cross;  not  a  hill  in  sight  of  her 
house  left  without  the  sacred  emblem  of  her  faith. 
"That  the  heretics  may  know,  as  they  go  by,  that 
they  are  on  the  estate  of  a  good  Catholic, ' '  she  said, 
"and  that  the  faithful  may  be  reminded  to  pray. 
There  have  been  miracles  of  conversion  wrought  on 
the  most  hardened  by  a  sudden  sight  of  the  Blessed 
Cross." 

There  they  stood,  summer  and  winter,  rain  and 
shine,  the  silent,  solemn,  outstretched  arms,  and 
became  landmarks  to  many  a  guideless  traveler 
who  had  been  told  that  his  way  would  be  by  the 
first  turn  to  the  left  or  the  right,  after  passing  the 
last  one  of  the  Senora  Moreno's  crosses,  which  he 
couldn't  miss  seeing.  And  who  shall  say  that  it 
did  not  often  happen  that  the  crosses  bore  a  sud 
den  message  to  some  idle  heart  journeying  by,  and 
thus  justified  the  pious  half  of  the  Senora 's  im 
pulse?  Certain  it  was,  that  many  a  good  Catholic 
3 


22  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

halted  and  crossed  himself  when  he  first  Beheld 
them,  in  the  lonely  places,  standing  out  in  sudden 
relief  against  the  blue  sky;  and  if  he  said  a  swift, 
short  prayer  at  the  sight,  was  he  not  so  much  the 
better?— From  "Ramona." 


INDIAN  BASKETRY 

BY  ELLA  HIGGINSON 

INDIAN  basketry  is  poetry,  music,  art  and  life 
itself  woven  exquisitely  together  out  of  dreams, 
and  sent  out  into  a  thoughtless  world  in  appealing 
messages  which  will  one  day  be  farewells,  when 
the  poor  lonely  dark  women  who  wove  them  are 
no  more. 

At  its  best,  the  Basketry  of  the  islands  of  Atka 
and  Attu  in  the  Aleutian  chain  is  the  most  beauti 
ful  in  the  world.  Most  of  the  basketry  now  sold  as 
Attu  is  woven  by  the  women  of  Atka,  we  were  told 
at  Unalaska,  which  is  the  nearest  market  for  these 
baskets.  Only  one  old  woman  remains  on  Attu 
who  understands  this  delicate  and  priceless  work; 
and  she  is  so  poorly  paid  that  she  was  recently  re 
ported  to  be  in  a  starving  condition,  although  the 
velvety  creations  of  her  old  hands  and  brain  bring 
fabulous  prices  to  some  one.  The  saying  that  an 
Attu  basket  increases  a  dollar  for  every  mile  as  it 
travels  toward  civilization  is  not  such  an  exaggera 
tion  as  it  seems.  I  saw  a  trader  from  the  little 
steamer  Dora — the  only  one  regularly  plying  those 
far  waters — buy  a  small  basket,  no  larger  than  a 

[Copyright  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  1908.] 


Indian  Basketry  23 

pint  bowl,  for  five  dollars  in  Unalaska;  and  a 
month  later,  on  another  steamer,  between  Valdez 
and  Seattle,  an  enthusiastic  young  man  from  New 
York  brought  the  same  basket  out  of  his  stateroom 
and  proudly  displayed  it. 

"I  got  this  one  at  a  great  bargain/'  he  bragged, 
with  shining  eyes.  "I  bought  it  in  Valdez  for 
twenty-five  dollars,  just  what  it  cost  at  Unalaska. 
The  man  needed  the  money  worse  than  the  basket. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  Fin  always  stumbling 
on  bargains  like  that!"  he  concluded,  beginning  to 
strut. 

Then  I  was  heartless  enough  to  laugh,  and  to 
keep  on  laughing.  I  had  greatly  desired  that 
basket  myself. 

He  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing,  however, 
that  his  little  twined  bowl,  with  the  coloring  of  a 
Behring  Sea  sunset  woven  into  it,  would  be  worth 
fifty  dollars  by  the  time  he  reached  Seattle,  and  at 
least  a  hundred  in  New  York;  and  it  was  so  soft 
and  flexible  that  he  could  fold  it  up  meantime  and 
carry  it  in  his  pocket,  if  he  chose — to  say  nothing 
of  the  fact  that  Elizabeth  Propokoffono,  the  young 
and  famed  dark-eyed  weaver  of  Atka,  may  have 
woven  it  herself.  Like  the  renowned  ' '  Sally-Bags, ' ' 
made  by  Sally,  a  "Wasco  squaw,  the  baskets  woven 
by  Elizabeth  have  a  special  and  sentimental  value. 
If  she  would  weave  her  initials  into  them,  she  might 
ask,  and  receive,  any  price  she  fancied.  Sally,  of 
the  Wascos,  on  the  other  hand,  is  very  old ;  no  one 
weaves  her  special  bag,  and  they  are  becoming  rare 
and  valuable.  They  are  of  plain,  twined  weaving, 
and  are  very  coarse.  A  small  one  in  the  writer's 
possession  is  adorned  with  twelve  fishes,  six  eagles, 


24  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

three  dogs,  and  two  and  a  half  men.  Sally  is  ap 
parently  a  woman  suffragist  of  the  old  school, 
and  did  not  consider  that  men  counted  for  much  in 
the  scheme  of  Indian  baskets ;  yet,  being  a  philoso 
pher,  as  well  as  a  suffragist,  concluded  that  half  a 
man  was  better  than  none  at  all. 

At  Yakutat  ''Mrs.  Pete"  is  the  best  known  basket 
weaver.  Young,  handsome,  dark-eyed  and  clean, 
with  a  chubby  baby  in  her  arms,  she  willingly  and 
with  great  gravity  posed  against  the  pilothouse  of 
the  old  Santa  Ana  for  her  picture.  Asked  for  an 
address  to  which  I  might  send  one  of  the  pictures, 
she  proudly  replied,  "just  Mrs.  Pete,  Yakutat," 
Her  courtesy  was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  ex 
ceeding  rudeness  with  which  the  Sitkan  women 
treat  even  the  most  considerate  and  differential 
photographers;  glaring  at  them,  turning  their 
backs,  covering  their  heads,  hissing  and  even  spit 
ting  at  them. 

Basketry  is  either  hand-woven  or  sewed.  Hand- 
woven  work  is  divided  into  checker  work,  twilled 
work,  wicker  work,  wrapped  work  and  twined 
work.  Sewed  work  is  called  coiled  basketry. 

Twined  work  is  found  on  the  Pacific  Coast  from 
Attu  to  Chile,  and  is  the  most  delicate  and  difficult 
of  all  woven  work.  It  has  a  set  of  warp  rods,  and 
the  weft  elements  are  worked  in  by  two-strand  or 
three-strand  methods.  Passing  from  warp  to  warp, 
these  weft  elements  are  twisted  in  half-turns  on 
each  other,  so  as  to  form  a  two-strand  or  three- 
strand  twine  or  braid,  and  usually  with  a  deftness 
that  keeps  the  glossy  side  of  the  weft  outward. 

"The  Thlinkit,  weaving,"  says  Lieutenant  Em- 
mons,  "sits  with  knees  updrawn  to  the  chin,  feet 


Indian  Basketry  25 

close  to  the  body,  bent-shouldered,  with  arms 
around  the  knees,  the  work  held  in  front.  Some 
times  the  knees  fall  slightly  apart,  the  work  held 
between  them,  the  weft  frequently  held  in  the 
mouth,  the  feet  easily  crossed.  The  basket  is  held 
bottom  down.  In  all  kinds  of  weave,  the  strands 
are  constantly  dampened  by  dipping  the  fingers  in 
water.  The  finest  work  of  Attu  and  Atka  is  woven 
entirely  under  water.  A  rude  awl,  a  bear's  claw  or 
tooth,  are  the  only  implements  used.  The  Attu 
weaver  has  her  basket  inverted  and  suspended  by  a 
string,  working  from  the  bottom  clown  toward  the 
top. 

Almost  eveiy  part  of  plants  is  used — roots, 
stems,  bark,  leaves,  fruit  and  seeds.  The  following 
are  the  plants  chiefly  used  by  the  Thlinkits:  The 
black  shining  stems  of  the  maiden-hair  fern,  which 
are  easily  distinguished  and  which  add  a  rich 
touch;  the  split  stems  of  the  bromegrass  as  an 
overlaying  material  for  the  white  pattern  of 
spruce-root  baskets ;  for  the  same  purpose,  the  split 
stem  of  blue-joint ;  the  stem  of  wood  reedgraco ;  the 
stem  of  tufted  hairgrass;  the  stem  of  beach  rye; 
the  root  of  horsetail,  which  works  in  a  rich  purple ; 
wolf  moss,  boiled  for  canary-yellow  dye;  manna- 
grass;  root  of  the  Sitka  spruce  tree;  juice  of  the 
blueberry  for  a  purple  dye. 

The  Attu  weaver  uses  the  stems  and  leaves  of 
grass,  having  no  trees  and  few  plants.  When  she 
wants  the  grass  white,  it  is  cut  in  November  and 
hung,  points  down,  out-doors  to  dry;  if  yellow  be 
desired,  as  it  usually  is,  it  is  cut  in  July  and  the 
two  youngest  full-grown  blades  are  cut  out  and 
split  into  three  pieces,  the  middle  one  being  re- 


26  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

jected  and  the  others  hung  up  to  dry  out-doors ;  if 
green  is  wanted,  the  grass  is  prepared  as  for  yel 
low,  except  that  the  first  two  weeks  of  curing  is 
carried  on  in  the  heavy  shade  of  thick  grasses,  then 
it  is  taken  into  the  house  and  dried.  Curing  re 
quires  about  a  month,  during  which  time  the  sun  is 
never  permitted  to  touch  the  grass. 

Ornamentation  by  menns  of  color  is  wrought  by 
the  use  of  materials  which  are  naturally  of  a  differ 
ent  color;  by  the  use  of  dyed  materials;  by  over 
laying  the  weft  and  warp  with  strips  of  attractive 
material  before  weaving;  by  embroidering  on  the 
texture  during  the  process  of  manufacture,  this  be 
ing  termed  "false"  embroidery;  by  covering  the 
texture  with  plaiting,  called  imbrication;  by  the 
addition  of  feathers,  beads,  shells  and  objects  of 
like  nature. 

Some  otherwise  fine  specimens  of  Atkan  basketry 
are  rendered  valueless,  in  my  judgment,  by  the 
present  custom  of  introducing  flecks  of  gaily-dyed 
wool,  the  matchless  beauty  of  these  baskets  lying  in 
their  delicate,  even  weaving,  and  in  their  exquisite 
natural  coloring — the  faintest  old  rose,  lavender, 
green,  yellow  and  purple  being  woven  together  in 
one  ravishing  mist  of  elusive  splendor.  So  enchant 
ing  to  the  real  lover  of  basketry  are  the  creations 
of  those  far  lonely  women 's  hands  and  brains,  that 
they  seem  fairly  to  breathe  out  their  loveliness 
upon  the  air,  as  a  rose. 

This  basketry  was  first  introduced  to  the  world 
in  1874  by  William  H.  Dall,  to  whom  Alaska  and 
those  who  love  Alaska  owe  so  much.  Warp  and  weft 
are  both  of  beach  grass  or  wild  rye.  One  who  has 


Indian  Basketry  27 

never  seen  a  fine  specimen  of  these  baskets  has 
missed  one  of  the  joys  of  this  world. 

The  Aleuts  perpetuate  no  story  or  myth  in  their 
ornamentation.  AVith  them  it  is  art  for  art's  sake; 
and  this  is,  doubtless,  one  reason  why  their  work 
draws  the  beholder  spellbound.  The  symbolism  of 
the  Thlinkit  is  charming.  It  is  found  not  alone  in 
their  basketry,  but  in  their  carvings  in  stone,  horn, 
and  wood,  and  in  Chilkaht  blankets.  The  favorite 
designs  are  shadow  of  a  tree,  water  drops,  salmon 
berry  cut  in  half,  the  Arctic  tern 's  tail,  flaking  of 
the  flesh  of  a  fish,  shark's  tooth,  leaves  of  the  fire- 
weed,  an  eye,  raven's  tail,  and  the  crossing.  It 
must  be  confessed  that  only  a  wild  imagination 
could  find  the  faintest  resemblance  of  the  symbols 
woven  into  the  baskets  to  the  objects  they  repre 
sent.  The  symbol  called  ' '  shadow  of  a  tree ' '  really 
resembles  sunlight  in  moving  water. 

AVith  the  Haidah  hats  and  Chilkaht  blankets  it 
is  very  different.  The  head,  feet,  wings  and  tail 
of  the  raven,  for  instance,  are  easily  traced.  In 
more  recent  basketry  the  Swastika  is  a  familiar 
design.  Many  Thlinkit  baskets  have  "rattly"  cov 
ers.  Seeds  found  in  the  crops  of  quail  are  woven 
into  these  covers.  They  are  "good  spirits"  which 
can  never  escape,  and  will  insure  good  fortune  to 
the  owner.  AVoe  be  to  him,  however,  should  he 
permit  his  curiosity  to  tempt  him  to  investigate; 
they  will  then  escape,  and  work  him  evil  instead  of 
good  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

In  Central  Alaska,  the  basketry  is  usually  of  the 
coiled  variety,  coarsely  and  very  indifferently  ex 
ecuted.  Both  spruce  and  willow  are  used.  From 
Dawson  to  St.  Michael,  in  the  summer  of  1907, 


28  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

stopping  at  every  trading  post  and  Indian  village, 
I  did  not  see  a  single  piece  of  basketry  that  I 
would  carry  home.  Coarse,  unclean  and  of  sloven 
ly  workmanship,  one  could  but  turn  away  in  pity 
and  disgust  for  the  wasted  effort. 

The  Innuit  in  the  Behring  Sea  vicinity  make 
both  coiled  and  twined  basketry  from  dried 
grasses ;  but  it  is  even  worse  than  the  Yukon  bask 
etry,  being  carelessly  done — the  Innuit  infinitely 
preferring  the  carving  and  decorating  of  walrus 
ivory  to  basket  weaving.  It  is  delicious  to  find  an 
Innuit,  who  never  saw  a  glacier,  decorating  a  paper- 
knife  with  something  that  looks  like  a  pond  lily 
and  labelling  it  Taku  Glacier,  which  is  three  thou 
sand  miles  to  the  southeastward.  I  saw  no  attempt 
on  the  Yukon,  nor  on  Behring  Sea,  at  what  Mr. 
Mason  calls  imbrication — the  beautiful  ornamenta 
tion  which  the  Indians  of  Columbia,  Prazer  and 
Thompson  Rivers  and  of  many  Salish  tribes  of 
Northwestern  Washington  use  to  distinguish  their 
coiled  work.  It  resembles  knife-plaiting  before  it  is 
pressed  flat.  This  imbrication  is  frequently  of  an 
exquisite  dull,  reddish  brown  over  an  old,  soft  yel 
low.  Baskets  adorned  with  it  often  have  handles 
and  flat  covers;  but  papoose  baskets  and  covered 
long  baskets,  almost  as  large  as  trunks,  are  com 
mon. 

The  serpent  has  no  place  in  Alaskan  basketry  for 
the  very  good  reason  that  there  is  not  a  snake  in  all 
Alaska,  and  the  Indians  and  Innuit  probably  never 
saw  one.  A  woman  may  wade  through  the  swamp 
iest  place  or  the  tallest  grass  without  one  shivery 
glance  at  her  pathway  for  that  little  sinuous  ripple 
which  sends  terror  to  most  women's  hearts  in 


Indian  Basketry  29 

warmer  climes.  Indeed,  it  is  claimed  that  no 
poisonous  thing  exists  in  Alaska. 

There  was  once  a  tide  in  my  affairs  which,  not 
being  taken  at  the  flood,  led  on  to  everlasting  re 
gret. 

One  August  evening  several  years  ago  I  landed 
on  an  island  in  Puget  Sound  where  some  Indians 
were  camped  for  the  fishing  season.  It  was  Sun 
day;  the  men  were  playing  the  fascinating  gamb 
ling  game  of  slahal,  the  children  were  shouting  at 
play,  the  women  were  gathered  in  front  of  their 
tents,  gossiping. 

In  one  of  the  tents  I  found  a  coiled,  imbricated 
Thompson  River  basket  in  old  red-browns  and  yel 
lows.  It  was  three  and  a  half  feet  long,  two  and  a 
half  feet  high,  and  two  and  a  half  wide,  with  a 
thick,  close-fitting  cover.  It  was  offered  to  me  for 
ten  dollars,  and — that  I  should  live  to  chronicle  it ! 
— not  knowing  the  worth  of  such  a  basket.  I  closed 
my  eyes  to  its  appealing  and  unforgetable  beauty, 
and  passed  it  by. 

But  it  had,  it  has,  and  it  always  will  have  its 
silent  revenge.  It  is  as  bright  in  my  memory  to 
day  as  it  was  in  my  vision  that  August  Sunday 
ten  years  ago,  and  more  enchanting.  My  longing 
to  see  it  again,  to  possess  it,  increases  as  the  years 
go  by.  Never  have  I  seen  its  equal,  never  shall  I. 
Yet  I  am  ever  looking  for  that  basket,  in  every 
Indian  tent  or  hovel  I  may  stumble  upon — in  vil 
lages,  in  camps,  in  out-of-the-way  places.  Sure  am 
I  that  I  should  know  it  from  all  other  baskets,  at 
but  a  glance. 

I  knew  nothing  of  the  value  of  baskets,  and  I 
fancied  the  woman  was  taking  advantage  of  my 


30  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

ignorance.  While  I  hesitated,  the  steamer  whistled. 
It  was  all  over  in  a  moment ;  my  chance  was  gone. 
I  did  not  even  dream  how  greatly  I  desired  that 
basket  until  I  stood  in  the  bow  of  the  steamer  and 
saw  the  little  white  camp  fade  from  view  across 
the  sunset  sea. — From  "  Alaska. " 


AN  ENGINEERING  TRIUMPH 

BY  DAN  DE  QUILLE 

ANOTHER  work  that  has  been  of  great  benefit 
to  the  towns  along  the  Comstock,  and  to  all 
the  mining  and  milling  companies  in  and  about  the 
towns,  and  along  the  canons  below,  was  the  bring 
ing  of  an  ample  supply  of  pure  water  from  the 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains. 

In  the  early  days,  when  the  first  mining  was  done 
at  Virginia  City  and  Gold  Hill,  natural  springs 
furnished  a  supply  of  water  for  the  use  of  the  few 
persons  then  living  in  the  two  camps.  For  a  time 
after  the  discovery  of  silver,  these  springs,  and  a 
few  wells  that  were  dug  by  the  settlers,  sufficed  for 
all  uses,  but  as  the  towns  grew  in  population  an 
increased  supply  of  water  was  demanded.  A  water 
company  was  formed  and  the  water  flowing  from 
several  tunnels,  that  had  been  run  into  the  moun 
tains  west  of  Virginia  City  for  prospecting  pur 
poses,  was  collected  in  large  wooden  tanks,  and  dis 
tributed  about  the  two  towns  by  means  of  pipes. 
At  length  the  tunnels  from  which  this  supply  was 
obtained  began  to  run  dry,  and  a  water  famine  was 
threatened.  It  then  became  necessary  to  set  men  to 


rAn  Engineering  Triumph  31 

work  at  extending  the  tunnels  further  into  the  hills 
to  cut  across  new  strata  of  rock.  This  increased 
the  supply  for  a  time,  but  at  length  the  whole  top 
of  the  hill  into  which  the  tunnels  extended  ap 
peared  to  be  completely  drained. 

Early  in  the  spring,  when  the  snow  was  melting, 
they  afforded  a  considerable  supply;  but  in  the 
summer,  when  water  was  most  needed,  the  tunnels 
furnished  but  feeble  streams  and  these  were  much 
impregnated  with  minerals,  one  of  the  least  feared 
of  which  was  arsenic.  The  ladies  rather  liked 
arsenic,  as  it  improved  their  complexion;  made 
them  fair  and  rosy-cheeked — almost  young  again, 
some  of  them.  The  miners  did  not  object  to  ar 
senic,  as,  while  it  did  not  injure  their  complexion, 
it  strengthened  their  lungs — made  them  strong- 
winded,  and  able  to  scale  mountains.  (Every  man 
of  them  hungered  to  hunt  the  wild  chamois.)  But 
there  were  other  minerals  held  in  solution  in  the 
water — that  were  not  so  well  thought  of. 

The  nearer  hills  having  thus  been  drained,  tun 
nels  were  run  into  such  of  those  further  away  as 
were  of  sufficient  altitude  to  permit  of  streams 
from  them  being  brought  to  the  two  towns.  These 
tunnels  were  run  for  no  other  purpose  than  to 
find  water.  A  hill  was  examined  with  a  view  to 
its  water-producing  capacity.  It  was  found  that 
those  which  rose  up  in  a  single  sharp  or  rounded 
peak  were  not  rich  in  water.  The  best  water-pro 
ducers  were  hills  on  the  tops  of  which  there  were 
large  areas  of  flat  ground.  That  portion  of  a 
range  of  mountains  which  contained  on  the  summit 
a  large,  shallow  basin  surrounded  by  clusters  of 
hills  or  peaks  was  found  to  yield  largely  and  for  a 


32  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

long  time,  when  tapped  by  a  tunnel  run  under  the 
basin  or  sink  at  the  depth  of  three  or  four  hundred 
feet. 

Dams  were  constructed  across  the  outlets  of 
these  basins  to  hold  back  the  water  from  the  melt 
ing  snow,  in  order  that  it  might  filter  down  through 
the  earth  to  the  tunnels.  At  the  mouths  of  the 
tunnels  heavy  bulkheads  of  timber  and  plank  were 
constructed,  to  keep  back  and  dam  up  the  water 
where  it  could  be  kept  cool  and  pure.  Where 
deep  shafts  stood  near  the  line  of  these  tunnels, 
ditches  were  dug  to  them  along  the  sides  of  the 
hills,  and  the  water  formed  by  the  melting  of  the 
snow  in  the  spring  was  let  into  them.  All  manner 
of  devices,  in  short,  were  resorted  to  for  the  pur 
pose  of  keeping  in  and  upon  the  hills  all  of  the 
moisture  from  snow  or  rains  that  fell  upon  them. 
Yet,  one  after  another  these  hills  failed.  When 
once  the  tops  had  been  thoroughly  drained  it  ap 
peared  to  require  all  of  the  water  that  fell  on  them 
in  any  shape  during  winter  to  reach  down  into  and 
moisten  them  to  the  level  of  the  tunnels.  Finally, 
there  were,  in  all,  many  miles  of  these  horizontal 
wells.  All  the  hills  from  which  water  could  be 
brought,  for  miles  away  to  the  northward  and 
southward  of  Virginia  City  and  Gold  Hill,  were 
tapped,  thousands  on  thousands  of  dollars  being 
expended  in  this  work.  When  a  reservoir  of  water 
was  first  tapped  in  a  new  hill  there  would  be 
poured  out  a  great  flood  for  a  few  days ;  this  would 
then  fall  to  a  moderate  stream  and  so  remain  for 
a  month  or  two,  when  it  would  begin  to  dwindle 
away.  The  water  from  the  many  tunnels  was  col 
lected  by  means  of  small  wooden  flumes  or  troughs, 


An  Engineering  Triumph  33 

winding  about  the  curves  of  the  hills  for  miles,  and 
in  summer,  when  most  wanted,  the  sickly  streams 
from  the  more  distant  tunnels  were  lost  by  leakage 
and  evaporation  before  having  finished  half  their 
course  to  the  towns. 

Virginia  City  and  Gold  Hill  were  frequently 
placed  upon  a  short  allowance  of  water,  and  it  was 
seen  that  a  great  water  famine  must  soon  prevail  in 
both  towns,  in  case  the  tunnels  that  had  been  run 
into  the  mountains  were  depended  upon  for  a  sup 
ply.  The  Virginia  and  Gold  Hill  Water  Company 
then  determined  to  bring  a  supply  of  pure  water 
from  the  streams  and  lakes  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains — from  the  regions  of  eternal  snow. 

The  distance  from  Virginia  City  to  the  first 
available  streams  in  the  Sierras  was  about  twenty- 
five  miles ;  but  between  the  Virginia  range  of  moun 
tains  and  the  Sierras  lay  the  deep  depression 
known  as  Washoe  Valley — in  one  part  of  which  is 
situated  "Washoe  Lake.  The  problem  to  be  solved 
in  bringing  water  from  the  Sierras  to  Virginia 
City  was  how  to  convey  it  across  this  deep  valley. 

Mr.  H.  Schussler,  the  engineer  under  whose  su 
pervision  the  Spring  Valley  "Water  Works,  of  San 
Francisco,  were  constructed,  was  sent  for,  and 
crossing  the  Sierras  he  made  an  examination  of  the 
route  over  which  it  was  proposed  to  bring  the 
water.  He  acknowledged  that  the  undertaking 
was  one  of  great  difficulty.  To  convey  the  water 
across  the  deep  depression  formed  by  Washoe  Val 
ley  would  demand  the  performing  of  a  feat  in 
hydraulic  engineering  never  before  attempted  in 
any  part  of  the  world.  This  was  to  carry  the 
water  through  an  iron  pipe  under  a  perpendicular 


34  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

pressure  of  1,720  feet.  This  feat,  however,  Mr. 
Schussler  said  could  be  performed,  and  he  was 
ready  to  undertake  it  at  once. 

Surveys  were  made,  in  the  spring  of  1872,  and 
orders  given  for  the  manufacture  of  the  pipe.  To 
make  the  pipe  was  the  work  of  nearly  a  year.  The 
manufacturers  were  furnished  with  a  diagram  of 
the  line  on  which  it  was  to  be  laid  and  each  section 
was  made  to  fit  a  certain  spot.  AVhen  the  route  lay 
round  a  point  of  rocks  the  pipe  was  made  of  the 
required  curve,  and  other  curved  sections  were  re 
quired  when  the  line  crossed  deep  and  narrow 
ravines. 

The  first  section  of  pipe  was  laid  June  llth, 
1873,  and  the  last  on  the  25th  of  July  the  same 
year.  The  whole  length  of  the  pipe  is  seven  miles 
and  one  hundred  and  thirty-four  feet.  Its  interior 
diameter  is  twelve  inches,  and  is  capable  of  deliver 
ing  2,200,000  gallons  of  water  per  twenty-four 
hours.  It  lies  across  Washoe  Valley  in  the  form  of 
an  inverted  syphon.  The  end  at  which  the  water 
is  received  rests  upon  a  spur  from  the  main  Sierras 
at  an  elevation  of  1,885  feet  above  Washoe  Valley. 
The  outlet  is  on  the  crest  of  the  Virginia  range  of 
mountains,  on  the  eastern  slope  of  which  are  sit 
uated  the  towns  of  Virginia  and  Gold  Hill.  The 
perpendicular  elevation  of  the  inlet  above  the  out 
let  is  four  hundred  and  sixty-five  feet.  Thus  is 
brought  to  bear  a  great  pressure  which  forces  the 
water  rapidly  through  the  pipe. 

The  water  is  brought  to  the  inlet  through  a  large 
wooden  flume,  and  at  the  outlet  is  delivered  into  a 
similar  flume,  twelve  miles  in  length,  which  conveys 
it  to  Virginia  City.  The  pipe  is  of  wrought  iron, 


An  Engineering  Triumph  35 

and  is  fastened  by  three  rows  of  five-eighths-inch 
rivets.  At  the  lowest  point  in  the  ground  crossed, 
the  perpendicular  pressure  is  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  twenty  feet,  equal  to  eight  hundred 
pounds  to  the  square  inch.  Here  the  iron  is  five- 
sixteenths  of  an  inch  in  thickness,  but  as  the 
ground  rises  to  the  east  and  west,  and  the  pressure 
is  reduced,  the  thickness  of  the  iron  decreases 
through  one-fourth,  three-sixteenths,  down  to  one- 
sixteenth. 

In  its  course  the  pipe  crosses  thirteen  deep 
gulches,  making  necessary  that  number  of  undula 
tions,  as  it  is  throughout  its  length  laid  at  the 
depth  of  21/2  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Besides  these,  there  are  a  great  number  of  lateral 
curves  round  hills  and  points  of  rocks.  There  was 
just  one  place  and  none  other  for  each  section  of 
pipe  as  received  from  the  manufactory.  At  each 
point  where  there  is  a  depression  in  the  pipe  there 
is  a  blow-off  cock,  for  the  removal  of  any  sediment 
that  may  collect,  and  on  the  top  of  each  ridge  is  an 
air-cock,  for  blowing  off  the  air  when  the  water 
was  first  let  in,  and  at  other  times  when  the  pipe 
is  being  filled.  The  pipe  contains  no  less  than 
1,150,000  pounds  of  rolled  iron,  is  held  together  by 
1.000.000  rivets,  and  there  were  used  in  securing 
the  joints  52,000  pounds  of  lead,  which  was  melted 
and  poured  in  from  a  portable  furnace  that  moved 
along  the  line  as  the  work  of  laying  the  pipe  pro 
gressed.  Before  being  put  down,  each  section  of 
the  pipe  was  boiled  in  a  bath  of  asphaltum  and 
coal-tar  at  a  temperature  of  380  degrees.  At  the 
first  filling  of  the  pipe  a  stream  of  water,  about  the 
thickness  of  a  common  lead-pencil,  escaped  through 


36  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

the  lead  packing  of  a  joint,  at  a  point  where  the 
pressure  was  greatest.  This  struck  against  the 
face  of  a  rock  and,  rebounding,  played  upon  the 
upper  side  of  the  pipe.  The  water  brought  with  it 
from  the  rock  a  small  quantity  of  sand  or  grit,  per 
haps,  but  at  all  events  it  soon  bored  a  hole  through 
the  pipe,  and  from  this  hole,  which  shortly  became 
two  or  three  inches  in  diameter,  a  jet  of  water  as- 
scended  to  the  height  of  two  hundred  feet  or  more, 
spreading  out  in  the  shape  of  a  fan  toward  the  top. 

When  this  break  occurred,  a  signal  smoke  was 
made  in  the  valley,  and  the  lookout  at  the  inlet  on 
the  mountain  spur  shut  off  the  water.  Over  each 
joint  in  the  pipe  was  placed  a  cast-iron  sleeve  or 
band,  weighing  300  pounds,  and  within  this  sleeve 
was  poured  the  molten  lead  which  served  as  pack 
ing.  In  all  there  were  used  1,475,  or  442,500 
pounds,  of  these  sleeves,  and  but  three  out  of  the 
whole  number  proved  faulty  and  failed  to  sustain 
the  strain  brought  upon  them,  and  of  12,640  sheets 
of  iron  used  in  the  pipe  but  one  bad  one  was  found. 
As  it  would  have  been  a  great  task  to  test  each 
section  of  the  pipe  by  hydraulic  pressure  at  the 
manufactory,  the  engineer  proposed  to  bring  the 
whole  under  the  required  strain  at  once,  after  they 
were  put  down.  He  began  the  pressure  with  a 
perpendicular  height  of  1,250  feet  in  the  column 
of  water,  increased  it  to  1,550,  to  1,700,  and  finally 
to  1,850,  being  130  feet  more  than  the  pipe  would 
be  required  to  sustain  when  in  actual  use. 

During  these  experiments,  men  were  stationed  at 
the  inlet  of  the  pipe,  at  its  outlet  on  the  summit  of 
the  Virginia  range,  and  at  various  points  through 
the  valley,  as  lookout  men.  They  made  their  sig- 


An  Engineering  Triumph  37 

nals  by  means  of  srnoke  during  the  day,  and  a  fire 
by  night — a  trick  learned  from  the  Piute  Indians. 

As  the  water  came  surging  down  through  the 
great  inverted  syphon  from  the  elevated  mountain 
spur,  and  began  to  fill  and  press  upon  the  parts 
lying  in  the  deeper  portions  of  the  valley,  one 
after  another  the  blow-off  cocks  on  the  crests  of  the 
ridges  crossed,  opened,  and  allowed  the  escape  of 
the  compressed  air.  Compared  with  what  was 
heard  when  these  cocks  blew  off,  the  blowing  of  a 
whale  was  a  mere  whisper.  The  water  finally 
flowed  through  the  pipe  and  reached  Gold  Hill  and 
Virginia  City  on  the  night  of  August  1,  1873. 
Early  that  evening  a  signal  fire  was  lighted  in  the 
mountains  at  the  inlet  of  the  pipe,  showing  that  the 
water  had  again  been  turned  on. 

As  the  pipe  filled,  the  progress  of  the  water  in  it 
could  be  traced  by  the  blowing  off  of  the  air  on  the 
tops  of  the  ridges,  through  the  valley  and  at  last,  to 
the  great  joy  of  the  engineer  and  all  concerned  in 
the  success  of  the  enterprise,  the  signal  fire  at  the 
outlet,  on  the  summit  of  the  Virginia  range,  was  for 
the  first  time  lighted,  showing  that  the  water  was 
flowing  through  the  whole  length  of  the  pipe. 

When  the  water  reached  Virginia  City  there  was 
great  rejoicing.  Cannons  were  fired,  bands  of  music 
paraded  the  streets,  and  rockets  were  sent  up  all 
over  the  city.  Many  persons  went  out  and  filled 
bottles  with  this  first  water  from  the  Sierras,  and 
a  bottle  of  it  is  still  preserved  in  the  cabinet  of  the 
Pacific  Coast  Pioneers,— From  "The  Big  Bonanza." 


38  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

NOBILITY 

BY  RICHARD  REALF 

CAN'T  man  be  noble  unless  he  be  great, 
With  a  patrimonial  hall ; 
And  heaps  of  gold  and  vast  estate, 
And  vassals  at  his  call  ? 

Can't  man  be  noble  unless  there  be 

A  title  to  his  name, 
Unless  he  live  in  luxury 

Or  loll  in  the  seats  of  fame? 

Can't  man  be  noble  unless  his  voice 

Be  heard  in  the  senate  band; 
Or  his  eye  flash  bright  and  his  words  breathe  light 

Through  all  his  native  laud  ? 

Ah  yes !  at  the  forge  and  the  weaver 's  loom, 

As  well  as  in  hall  of  state, 
At  the  desk  and  in  the  cottage  room, 

There  are  noble  ones  and  great. 

They  are  springing  up  on  every  side, 

In  hamlet  and  in  town ; 
Where  the  stream  pours  and  ocean  roars, 

They  are  wreathing  a  laurel  crown. 

They  are  weaving  the  mighty  robe  of  truth, 
And  bold  are  the  throws  they  make, 

As  they  are  teaching  age  and  guilt 
Oppressive  bonds  to  break. 

[From  "Poems  by  Richard  Realf."    Copyright  by  Funk  & 
Wagnalls,  N.  Y.  and  London.] 


A  Unique  House  39 

Yes,  these  are  the  noble  and  the  great 

Who  will  shine  at  a  distant  day, 
Where  titled  ones  of  hall  and  state 

Shall  have  been  but  far  away. 

—From  "Poems." 


A  UNIQUE  HOUSE 

BY  W.  C.  BARTLETT 

THE  loftiest  house,  and  the  most  perfect,  in  the 
matter  of  architecture,  I  have  ever  seen,  was  that 
which  a  wood-chopper  occupied  with  his  family  one 
winter  in  the  forests  of  Santa  Cruz  County.  It 
was  the  cavity  of  a  redwood  tree  two  hundred  and 
forty  feet  in  height.  Fire  had  eaten  away  the 
trunk  at  the  base,  until  a  circular  room  had  been 
formed,  sixteen  feet  in  diameter.  At  twenty  feet 
or  more  from  the  ground  was  a  knot-hole,  which 
afforded  egress  for  the  smoke.  With  hammocks 
hung  from  pegs,  and  a  few  cooking  utensils  hung 
from  other  pegs,  that  house  lacked  no  essential 
thing.  This  woodsman  was  in  possession  of  a  house 
which  had  been  a  thousand  years  in  process  of 
building.  Perhaps  on  the  very  day  it  was  finished 
he  came  along  and  entered  it.  How  did  all  jack- 
knife  and  hand-saw  architecture  sink  into  insig 
nificance  in  contrast  with  this  house  in  the  solitudes 
of  the  great  forest!  Moreover,  the  tenant  fared 
like  a  prince ;  within  thirty  yards  of  his  coniferous 
house  a  mountain  stream  went  rushing  past  to  the 
sea,  In  the  swirls  and  eddies  under  the  shelving 
rocks  if  one  could  not  land  half  a  dozen  trout 


..       40  Patluvay  to  Western  Literature 

within  an  hour  he  deserved  to  go  hungry  as  a  pen 
alty  for  his  awkwardness.  Now  and  then  a  deer 
came  out  into  the  openings,  and,  at  no  great  dis 
tance  quail,  rabbits  and  pigeons  could  be  found. 
What  did  this  man  want  more  than  nature  had 
furnished  him?  He  had  a  house  with  a  ''cupola" 
two  hundred  and  forty  feet  high,  and  game  at  the 
cost  of  taking  it. — From  "A  Breeze  From  the 
Woods." 


IN  BLOSSOM  TIME 

BY  INA  COOLBRITH 

:T  'S  0  my  heart,  my  heart, 
To  be  out  in  the  sun  and  sing — 
To  sing  and  shout  in  the  fields  about, 
In  the  balm  and  blossoming ! 

Sing  loud,  0  bird  in  the  tree ; 

0  bird,  sing  loud  in  the  sky, 
And  honey-bees,  blacken  the  clover  beds — 

There  is  none  of  you  glad  as  I. 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  the  wind, 
Laugh  low,  with  the  wind  at  play ; 

And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 
Entices  my  soul  away! 

For  0  but  the  world  is  fair,  is  fair — 

And  O  but  the  world  is  sweet ! 
I  will  out  in  the  gold  of  the  blossoming  mould, 

And  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 


Autumn  in  Southern  California  41 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak, 

I  will  fold  in  the  lily's  rim, 
That  the  lips  of  the  blossom,  more  pure  and  meek, 

May  offer  it  up  to  Him. 

Then  sing  in  the  hedgerow  green,  0  thrush, 

O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue; 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  king  may  hear, 

And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you ! 

—From  "Songs  of  the  Golden  Gate." 


AUTUMN  IN  SOUTHEEN  CALIFORNIA 

BY  THEODORE  VAX  DYKE 

HPIIERE  is  nothing  about  autumn  here  that  is  at 
A  all  saddening  or  sentimental.  It  is  only  the  long- 
lingering  afternoon  of  a  long-lingering  summer  day. 
There  are  dreamy  hazes  and  filmy  atmospheres 
enough,  but  they  are  not  at  all  peculiar  to  autumn. 
The  spider  occasionally  weaves  his  thin  shroud 
and  the  gossamer  rides  the  air;  dead  leaves  rustle 
to  the  rabbit 's  tread ;  the  crow  caws  from  the  tree- 
top  ;  the  jay  jangles  and  the  quail  pipes ;  but  they 
have  been  doing  it  all  summer,  and,  in  truth,  much 
of  it  in  the  spring.  It  is  a  bad  country  for  "the 
singer,"  although  one  occasionally  ventures  "a 
poem"  in  which  no  one  without  looking  at  the  title 
could  tell  which  season  it  described. 

September  brings  no  change  along  the  rolling 
hills,  except  a  little  ashen  tint  upon  the  ramiria 
and  the  chorizanthe,  a  paler  brown  upon  the  dod 
der  that  clambers  over  the  chemisal  or  buckwheat, 
a  grayer  shade  upon  the  white  sage  and  the  dead 


42  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

phacelias,  a  grayer  brown  upon  the  plains  and 
table-lands.  Smiling  from  unclouded  skies,  the  sun 
passes  the  central  line,  the  nights  grow  a  trifle 
cooler,  the  ocean  breeze  a  trifle  fresher;  but  in 
stead  of  rain  there  is  merely  a  dryer  air.  The  lin 
net  and  the  mocking-bird  are  heard  no  more;  the 
cooing  of  the  dove  sounds  more  seldom  from  the 
grove;  the  brooding  call  of  the  quail  has  ceased 
along  the  hills  and  dales,  and  the  young  coveys 
gather  into  large  bands.  The  mimulus  that  has 
lingered  long  among  the  shady  chinks  of  the  gran 
ite  piles  begins  to  close  its  crimson  bugles ;  the  ivy 
that  twines  the  oak  above  it  shows  a  strong  tinge 
of  scarlet;  the  sand-verbena  and  other  summer 
flowers  begin  to  fade ;  the  wild  gourd  ripens  on  the 
low  grounds,  and  the  meadows  along  the  edge  turn 
a  trifle  sere.  But  in  nearly  all  else  it  is  summer. 

October  comes,  but  the  summer  sun  still  rules 
the  land.  The  low  hills  that  are  free  from  chapar 
ral  grow  paler  where  the  dead  mustard,  wild  oats, 
clover,  alfileria  and  foxtail  have  so  long  lain  bleach 
ing.  The  chaparral  bushes  look,  perhaps,  a  trifle 
weary ;  the  green  of  the  sumac  is  a  little  less  bright 
than  in  July;  the  elder  and  the  wild  buckwheat 
look  unmistakably  worse  for  wear,  and  even  the 
ever- vigorous  cactus  seems  to  think  it  has  done  full 
duty.  But  all  these  changes  are  very  slight  and 
would  scarcely  be  noticed  by  the  casual  observer. 
For  the  whole  host  of  bushes  and  trees  that  cover 
the  hills,  the  living  grass  that  covers  the  moist 
lands,  and  the  dead  grass  that  carpets  the  plains, 
all  wear  the  same  general  appearance  as  in  July; 
while  some  plants,  such  as  goldenrod  in  the  mead 
ows,  are  just  coming  into  bloom,  and  on  the  dry 


Autumn  in  Southern  California  43 

lands  the  baccharis  is  rearing  its  snowy  plumes. 
Many  days  will  now  be  cooler  than  most  days  of 
the  summer,  hoar-frost  will  be  found  along  the 
mountain  valleys,  some  skies  will  be  a  little  over 
cast,  perhaps  rain  enough  may  fall  to  start  the 
weather  prophets;  but  the  whole  will  be  soft  and 
bright  like  the  sunset  hour  of  a  lovely  summer  day. 

November :  Yet  no  leaden  skies ;  no  sodden  leaves 
on  soaking  ground;  no  snowflakes  riding  on  howl 
ing  blasts;  no  sloughs  of  mud  in  the  roads  to 
day,  frozen  hummocks  to-morrow ;  no  robin  chirp 
ing  out  a  dismal  farewell  high  above  one's  head; 
no  fish-ducks  whistling  down  the  icy  margin  of  the 
pond  where  of  late  the  mallard  quacked ;  no  spar 
rows  sitting  around  with  ruffled  feathers.  Only  a 
little  colder  nights  and  shorter  days;  only  a  little 
frost  along  the  bottoms  of  the  valleys ;  only  a  little 
stiller,  drier  air,  often  clearer  than  in  summer,  ex 
cept  where  brush-fires  make  it  thick  or  hazy.  The 
evaporation  being  checked  by  the  longer  and  cooler 
nights,  the  water  rises  in  the  springs  and  runs  in 
places  where  two  months  ago  was  nothing  but  dry 
sand.  The  wild  duck  appears  along  the  sloughs, 
the  honk  of  the  goose  is  heard  again  in  its  winter 
haunts,  the  bluebird  and  robin  come  down  from 
the  high  mountains,  and  the  turtledove  almost  dis 
appears.  The  sycamore  and  cottonwood  begin  to 
look  sere,  the  grapevine  leaves  are  yellowing,  and 
the  willows  are  fast  fading.  But  in  nearly  all  else 
it  is  still  summer. 

December  comes  at  last,  but  few  would  suspect 
it.  The  nights  are  still  colder,  and  the  hoar-frost 
creeps  higher  up  along  the  slopes  of  the  valleys, 
and  thin  ice  may  form  at  daylight  on  some  of  the 


44  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

lowest  grounds.  Yet  the  days  are  nearly  like  those 
of  summer,  though  the  Seabreeze  is  almost  gone 
and  the  wind  comes  often  from  the  north  and  east. 
The  berries  of  the  manzanita  are  now  black  and 
shining ;  the  heteromeles  is  aglow  with  scarlet  clus 
ters  ;  the  goldenrod  that  lately  blazed  along  the 
meadows  is  grown  gray  and  fuzzy ;  the  acorns  pat 
ter  on  the  roof  beneath  the  spreading  live-oak ;  the 
plains  look  a  little  grayer,  the  table-lands  a  little 
browner.  But  the  grand  old  oaks,  the  sumacs,  the 
lilac,  fuchsia,  manzanita,  madrona — all  the  chapar 
ral  bushes,  in  fact — are  very  nearly  as  green  as 
ever.  We  might  as  well  call  the  whole  of  it  sum 
mer,  for  it  is  only  summer  a  little  worn  out. 

"How  fearfully  monotonous  all  that  must  be!" 
remarks  one  who  has  never  passed  through  it.  "I 
like  something  positive,  some  distinctive  features 
about  the  seasons.  It  is  so  pleasant  to  sit  by  the 
fire  and  hear  the  snowstorm  howl  without ;  sleigh- 
riding  is  so  delightful,  skating  is  such  a  luxury! 
And  then  the  winter  air  is  so  bracing  and  sends 
the  pulse  bounding,  and  makes  the  cheek  glow  with 
health!" 

To  wrhich  it  might  be  replied :  There  are  some 
things  that  are  not  always  objectionable  even  when 
monotonous;  such  things  as  health  and  wealth,  for 
instance.  It  is  possible  that  such  things  appear 
monotonous  to  those  who  do  not  possess  them ;  and 
also  possible  that  after  a  thorough  trial  of  them 
they  might  change  their  opinion  of  them.  One 
who  has  never  spent  an  autumn  outside  of  an  um 
brella  or  an  overcoat,  and  all  whose  winters  have 
b'een  largely  spent  sitting  by  the  fires  and  listen 
ing  to  the  raging  of  the  storm  without,  is  hardly  a 


Leaf  and  Blade  45 

competent  judge  compared  with  one  who  has  given 
both  sides  of  the  case  a  fair  trial,  as  have  most  of 
the  residents  of  California.  At  all  events,  there  is 
always  one  resource  for  any  one  whom  such  mo 
notony  troubles — to  return  to  the  East  and  try 
once  more  those  good  old  days  by  the  fire.  Few 
ever  stay  East  long  enough  to  test  them  again  thor 
oughly;  from  those  that  do,  "monotony"  is  the 
least  complaint  ever  heard  after  their  return  to 
California. — From  "Southern  California.' 


i 


LEAF  AXD  BLADE 

BY  INA  COOLBBITH 

AM  a  lowly  grass  blade, 

A  fair  green  leaf  is  she, 
Her  little  fluttering  shadow 
Falls  daily  over  me. 

She  sits  so  high  in  sunshine, 

I  am  so  low  in  shade, 
I  do  not  think  she  ever 

Has  looked  where  I  am  laid. 

She  sings  to  merry  music, 

She  frolics  in  the  light; 
The  great  moon  plays  the  lover 

AVith  her  through  half  the  night. 

The  swift,  sweet  winds  they  flatter 
And  woo  her  all  the  day — 

I  tremble  lest  the  boldest 
Should  carry  her  away. 


46  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Only  a  little  grass  blade 
That  dare  not  look  so  high, 

Yet,  oh !  not  any  love  her 
One-half  so  well  as  I. 

My  little  love — so  happy ! 

My  love — so  proud  and  fair ! 
Would  she  might  dwell  forever 

In  the  sweet  summer  air. 

But,  ah !  the  days  will  darken, 
The  pleasant  skies  will  pall, 

And  pale,  and  parched,  and  broken, 
My  little  love  down  fall. 

And  yet  the  thought  most  bitter 

Is  not  that  she  must  die, 
But  that  even  death  should  bring  her 

To  lie  as  low  as  I. 
—From  " Songs  From  the  Golden  Gate." 


THE  ASCENT  OF  MT.  TYNDALL 

BY  CLARENCE  KING 

THHERE  was  no  foothold  above  us.  Looking 
1  down  over  the  course  we  had  come,  it  seemed, 
and  I  really  believe  it  was,  an  impossible  descent; 
for  one  can  climb  upward  with  safety  where  he 
cannot  downward.  To  turn  back  was  to  give  up  in 
defeat ;  and  we  sat  at  least  half  an  hour,  suggesting 
all  possible  routes  to  the  summit,  accepting  none, 
and  feeling  disheartened. 

[Copyright,  1902,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.] 


The  Ascent  of  Mt.  Tijndall  47 

About  thirty  feet  directly  over  our  heads  was 
another  shelf  which,  if  we  could  reach  it,  seemed  to 
offer  at  least  a  temporary  way  upward.  On  its 
edge  were  two  or  three  spikes  of  granite;  whether 
firmly  connected  with  the  cliff,  or  merely  to  blocks 
of  debris,  we  could  not  tell  from  below.  I  said  to 
Cotter,  I  thought  of  but  one  possible  plan :  It  was 
to  lasso  one  of  these  blocks,  and  to  climb,  sailor 
fashion,  hand  over  hand,  up  the  rope. 

In  the  lasso  I  had  perfect  confidence,  for  I  had 
seen  more  than  one  Spanish  bull  throw  his  whole 
weight  against  it  without  parting  a  strand.  The 
shelf  was  so  narrow  that  throwing  the  coil  of  rope 
was  a  very  difficult  undertaking. 

I  tried  three  times,  and  Cotter  spent  five  min 
utes  vainly  whirling  the  loop  up  at  the  granite 
spikes. 

At  last  I  made  a  lucky  throw,  and  it  tightened 
upon  one  of  the  smaller  protuberances.  I  drew  the 
noose  close,  and  very  gradually  threw  my  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  upon  the  rope ;  then  Cotter  joined 
me  and,  for  a  moment,  we  both  hung  our  united 
weight  upon  it. 

Whether  the  rock  moved  slightly  or  whether  the 
lasso  stretched  a  little  we  were  unable  to  decide; 
but  the  trial  must  be  made,  and  I  began  to  climb 
slowly.  The  smooth  precipice-face  against  which 
my  body  swung  offered  no  foothold,  and  the  whole 
climb  had,  therefore,  to  be  done  by  the  arms,  an 
effort  requiring  all  one's  determination.  When 
about  halfway  up  I  was  obliged  to  rest,  and  curling 
my  feet  in  the  rope,  managed  to  relieve  my  arms 
for  a  moment.  In  this  position  I  could  not  resist 
the  fascinating  temptation  of  a  survey  downward. 


48  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Straight  down,  nearly  a  thousand  feet  below,  at 
the  foot  of  the  rocks,  began  the  snow,  whose  steep, 
roof -like  slope,  exaggerated  into  an  almost  vertical 
angle,  curved  down  in  a  long  white  field,  broken 
far  away  by  rocks  and  polished,  round  lakes  of  ice. 

Cotter  looked  up  cheerfully  and  asked  how  I  was 
making  it,  to  which  I  answered  that  I  had  plenty 
of  wind  left.  At  that  moment,  when  hanging  be 
tween  heaven  and  earth,  it  was  a  deep  satisfaction 
to  look  down  at  the  wild  gulf  of  desolation  beneath, 
and  up  to  unknown  dangers  ahead,  and  to  feel  my 
nerves  cool  and  unshaken. 

A  few  pulls  hand  over  hand  brought  me  to  the 
edge  of  the  shelf,  when,  throwing  an  arm  around 
the  granite  spike,  I  swung  my  body  upon  the  shelf 
and  lay  down  to  rest,  shouting  to  Cotter  that  I  was 
all  right,  and  that  the  prospects  upward  were  cap 
ital.  After  a  few  moments'  breathing  I  looked 
over  the  brink  and  directed  my  comrade  to  tie  the 
barometer  to  the  lower  end  of  the  lasso,  which  he 
did,  and  that  precious  instrument  was  hoisted  to 
my  station,  and  the  lasso  sent  down  twice  for  knap 
sacks,  after  which  Cotter  came  up  the  rope  in  his 
very  muscular  way  without  once  stopping  to  rest. 
We  took  our  loads  in  our  hands,  swinging  the 
barometer  over  my  shoulder,  and  climbed  up  a 
shelf  which  led  in  a  zigzag  direction  upward  and  to 
the  south,  bringing  us  out  at  last  upon  the  thin 
blade  of  a  ridge  which  connected  a  short  distance 
above  with  the  summit.  It  was  formed  of  huge 
blocks,  shattered  and  ready,  at  a  touch,  to  fall. 

So  narrow  and  sharp  was  the  upper  slope  that 
we  dared  not  walk,  but  got  astride,  and  worked 
slowly  along  with  our  hands,  pushing  the  knap- 


The  Ascent  of  Mt.  Tyndall  49 

sacks  in  advance,  now  and  then  holding  our  breath 
when  loose  masses  rocked  under  our  weight. 

Once  upon  the  summit,  a  grand  view  burst  upon 
us.  Hastening  to  step  upon  the  crest  of  the  divide, 
which  was  never  more  than  ten  feet  wide,  frequent 
ly  sharpened  to  a  thin  blade,  we  looked  down  the 
other  side,  and  were  astonished  to  find  we  had  as 
cended  the  gentler  slope,  and  that  the  rocks  fell 
from  our  feet  in  almost  vertical  precipices  for  a 
thousand  feet  or  more.  A  glance  along  the  summit 
toward  the  highest  group  showed  us  that  any  ad 
vance  in  that  direction  was  impossible,  for  the  thin 
ridge  was  gashed  along  in  notches  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  deep,  forming  a  procession  of  pillars, 
obelisks,  and  blocks  piled  upon  each  other,  and 
looking  terribly  insecure. 

TTe  then  deposited  our  knapsacks  in  a  safe  place, 
and,  finding  that  it  was  already  noon,  determined 
to  rest  a  little  while  and  take  a  lunch  at  over  thir 
teen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

The  view  was  so  grand,  the  mountain  colors  so 
brilliant,  immense  snowfields  and  blue  alpine  lakes 
so  charming,  that  we  almost  forgot  we  were  ever  to 
move,  and  it  was  only  after  a  swift  hour  of  this  de 
light  that  we  began  to  consider  our  future  course. 

"We're  in  for  it  now,  King,"  remarked  my 
comrade,  as  he  looked  aloft,  and  then  down;  but 
our  blood  was  up  and  danger  added  only  an  ex 
hilarating  thrill  to  the  nerves. 

The  shelf  was  barely  more  than  two  feet  wide 
and  the  granite  so  smooth  that  we  could  find  no 
place  to  fasten  the  lasso  for  the  next  descent:  so 
I  determined  to  try  the  climb  with  only  as  little 
aid  as  possible.  Tying  it  around  my  breast  again, 


50  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

I  gave  the  other  end  into  Cotter's  hands,  and  he, 
bracing  his  back  against  the  cliff,  found  for  himself 
as  firm  a  foothold  as  he  could,  and  promised  to  give 
me  all  the  help  in  his  power.  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  bear  no  weight  unless  it  was  absolutely  neces 
sary;  and  for  the  first  ten  feet  I  found  cracks  and 
protuberances  enough  to  support  me,  making  every 
square  inch  of  surface  do  friction  duty,  and  hug 
ging  myself  against  the  rocks  as  tightly  as  I  could. 
When  within  about  eight  feet  of  the  next  shelf,  I 
twisted  myself  round  upon  the  face,  hanging  by 
two  rough  blocks  of  protruding  feldspar,  and 
looked  vainly  for  some  further  handhold;  but  the 
rock,  beside  being  perfectly  smooth,  overhung 
slightly,  and  my  legs  dangled  in  the  air.  I  saw 
that  the  next  cleft  was  over  three  feet  broad,  and 
I  thought  possibly  I  might,  by  a  quick  slide,  reach 
it  in  safety  without  endangering  Cotter.  I  shouted 
to  him  to  be  very  careful  and  let  go  in  case  I  fell, 
loosened  my  hold  upon  the  rope,  and  slid  quickly 
down.  My  shoulder  struck  against  the  rock  and 
threw  me  out  of  balance;  for  an  instant  I  reeled 
over  upon  the  verge,  in  danger  of  falling,  but,  in 
the  excitement,  I  thrust  out  my  hand  and  seized 
a  small  alpine  gooseberry  bush,  the  first  piece  of 
vegetation  we  had  seen.  Its  roots  were  so  firmly 
fixed  in  the  crevice  that  it  held  my  weight  and 
saved  me. 

I  could  no  longer  see  Cotter,  but  I  talked  to  him, 
and  heard  the  two  knapsacks  come  bumping  along 
till  they  slid  over  the  eaves  above  me,  and  swung 
down  to  my  station,  when  I  seized  the  lasso's  end 
and  braced  myself  as  well  as  possible,  intending, 
if  he  slipped,  to  haul  in  slack  and  help  him  as  best 


The  Ascent  of  Mt.  Tyndall  51 

I  could.  As  he  came  slowly  down  from  crack  to 
crack,  I  heard  his  hobnailed  shoes  grating  on  the 
granite;  presently  they  appeared  dangling  from 
the  eaves  above  my  head.  I  had  gathered  in  the 
rope  until  it  was  taut,  and  then  hurriedly  told  him 
to  drop.  He  hesitated  a  moment  and  let  go.  Be 
fore  he  struck  the  rock  I  had  him  by  the  shoulder 
and  whirled  him  down  upon  his  side,  thus  prevent 
ing  his  rolling  overboard,  which  friendly  action  he 
took  quite  coolly. 

The  third  descent  was  not  a  difficult  one,  nor  the 
fourth ;  but  when  we  had  climbed  down  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  the  rocks  were  so  glacially 
polished  and  water-worn  that  it  seemed  impossible 
to  get  any  farther.  To  our  right  was  a  crack  pene 
trating  the  rock  perhaps  a  foot  deep,  widening  at 
the  surface  to  three  or  four  inches,  which  proved 
to  be  the  only  possible  ladder.  As  the  chances 
seemed  rather  desperate,  we  concluded  to  tie  our 
selves  together,  in  order  to  share  a  common  fate, 
and  with  a  slack  of  thirty  feet  between  us  and  our 
knapsacks  upon  our  backs,  we  climbed  into  the 
crevice  and  began  descending  with  our  faces  to  the 
cliff.  This  had  to  be  done  with  unusual  caution, 
for  the  foothold  was  about  as  good  as  none,  and 
our  fingers  slipped  annoyingly  on  the  smooth 
stone;  besides,  the  knapsacks  and  instruments  kept 
a  steady  backward  pull,  tending  to  over-balance  us. 
But  we  took  pains  to  descend  one  at  a  time  and 
rest  whenever  the  niches  gave  our  feet  a  safe  sup 
port.  In  this  way  we  got  down  about  eighty  feet 
of  smooth,  nearly  vertical  wall,  reaching  the  top  of 
a  rude  granite  stairway,  which  led  to  the  snow; 
and  here  we  sat  down  to  rest  and  found  to  our  as- 


52  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

tonishment  that  we  had  been  three  hours  from  the 
summit. 

After  breathing  a  half  minute  we  continued 
down,  jumping  from  rock  to  rock,  and,  having  by 
practice  become  very  expert  in  balancing  our 
selves,  sprang  on,  never  resting  long  enough  to 
lose  the  aplomb,  and  in  this  way  made  a  quick  de 
scent  over  rugged  debris  to  the  crest  of  a  snow- 
field,  which,  for  seven  or  eight  hundred  feet  more, 
swept  down  in  a  smooth,  even  slope,  of  very  high 
angle,  to  the  borders  of  a  frozen  lake. 

Without  untying  the  lasso  which  bound  us  to 
gether,  we  sprang  upon  the  snow  with  a  shout  and 
glissaded  down  splendidly,  turning  now  and  then 
a  summersault  and  shooting  out  like  cannonballs 
almost  to  the  middle  of  the  frozen  lake,  I  upon 
my  back,  and  Cotter  feet  first,  in  a  swmming  posi 
tion.  The  ice  cracked  in  all  directions.  It  was 
only  a  thin,  transparent  film,  through  which  we 
could  see  deep  into  the  lake.  Untying  ourselves 
we  hurried  ashore  in  different  directions,  lest  our 
combined  weight  should  be  too  great  a  strain  upon 
any  point. 

With  curiosity  and  wonder  we  scanned  every 
shelf  and  niche  of  the  last  descent.  It  seemed  quite 
impossible  we  could  have  come  down  there,  and 
now  it  actually  was  beyond  human  power  to 
get  back  again.  But  what  cared  we?  "Sufficient 
unto  the  day."  We  were  bound  for  that  still  dis 
tant,  though  gradually  nearing,  summit;  and  we 
had  come  from  a  cold,  shadowed  cliff  into  delicious- 
ly  warm  sunshine  and  were  jolly,  shouting,  singing 
songs  and  calling  out  the  companionship  of  a  hun- 


A  Trip  to  the  Farallones  53 

dred  echoes. — From  "Mountaineering  in  the  Sierra 


Xevadas. ' ' 


A  TRIP  TO  THE  FARALLOXES 

BY  CHARLES  KEELER 

AT  daylight,  on  a  Sunday  morning  in  July,  I 
found  myself  with  one  companion  standing  up 
on  Fisherman's  AVharf  in  San  Francisco  and  waiting 
for  the  signal  to  start  upon  a  trip  to  the  Farallones. 
The  early  hour  had  been  chosen  on  account  of  the 
tide,  which  was  then  on  the  ebb,  a  circumstance  of 
no  little  importance  in  undertaking  to  beat  out  to 
sea  through  the  Golden  Gate  against  the  fresh  head 
wind  which  was  then  blowing.  The  sun  was  just 
flushing  the  misty  sky  over  the  Berkeley  hills 
across  the  bay,  and  the  staunch  craft  of  the  Greek 
fishermen  were  bobbing  about  at  their  moorings 
beside  us.  One  or  two  were  already  starting  off 
and  spreading  their  graceful  lateen  sails  to  the 
morning  breeze.  A  group  of  bronzed  fishermen,  in 
their  blue  shirts,  rubber  boots  and  bright  sashes, 
were  at  work  making  ready  some  of  the  boats  for 
the  day's  labor,  washing  seines,  hauling  them  in  to 
dry  and  cleaning  off  the  decks. 

The  captain  and  two  hands,  composing  the  crew 
of  our  little  boat,  were  late  in  arriving,  but  pre 
sently  appeared  on  the  wharf  with  supplies  for  the 
trip.  Like  most  of  the  fishermen,  our  men  were 
Greeks,  understanding  but  little  English  and  speak 
ing  less.  Our  boat  was  the  largest  of  the  fisher 
men's  one-masted  craft  with  lateen  sails,  and  was 


54  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

decked  over,  leaving  an  apartment  below  in  which 
one  might  sit  or  crawl  about  in  the  darkness.  All 
jbeing  ready,  the  anchor  was  drawn  in  and  stowed 
below,  and  the  long  oars  were  brought  into  use  to 
carry  us  well  out  into  the  stream.  By  this  time  the 
breeze  had  freshened  so  that  the  water  was  flecked 
with  big  white  combers.  Several  fishing  boats  had 
started  out  before  us  and  a  number  followed  close 
ly  after,  making  a  picturesque  little  flotilla  scudding 
along  under  closely  reefed  sails.  The  raising  of  our 
mainsail  in  so  stiff  a  breeze  was  attended  with  no 
little  difficulty,  but  at  last,  after  much  pulling, 
jumping  about,  shouting  and  dodging  of  flapping 
canvas  and  swinging  boom,  it  was  up  and  we  were 
started  on  our  voyage. 

My  companion  and  I  were  safely  stowed  out  of 
harm's  way  below  deck,  with  the  hatch  tightly 
closed  over  our  heads  and  the  odors  of  unsavory 
viands  and  bilge  water  about  us  in  the  darkness. 
The  boat  was  bobbing  about  like  a  cork  and  the 
one  controlling  passion  of  our  lives  was  to  get  out 
of  our  prison  into  the  sunlight.  This  we  presently 
insisted  on  doing,  and,  upon  opening  the  hatch  and 
standing  up  in  the  well,  life  took  on  quite  a  differ 
ent  aspect.  The  cold,  salt  air  soon  restored  us  to 
a  more  comfortable  frame  of  mind,  although,  every 
few  minutes,  a  vigorous  wave  would  come  cathud 
against  the  bow  and  hurl  a  bucketful  of  water  in 
our  faces.  The  fortunate  possession  of  a  rubber 
coat  saved  me  from  being  completely  drenched, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  the  seepage  from  an  oc 
casional  shower  of  spray  running  down  my  neck, 
and  a  pair  of  wet  shoes,  I  kept  tolerably  dry.  The 
case  was  otherwise  with  my  companion,  however; 


A  Trip  to  the  Faralloncs  55 

he  had  no  rubber  coat  and  was  accordingly  soon 
compelled  to  go  below,  drenched  and  disconsolate. 

We  passed  the  ships  anchored  in  the  stream. 
Alcatraz,  with  its  array  of  fortifications,  was  on 
the  right  of  us  and  Black  Point  on  the  left.  As 
we  stood  out  past  Lime  Point,  in  the  teeth  of  a  stiff 
breeze,  I  occupied  myself  watching  the  California 
murres  disporting  jn  the  water.  The  murre  is  one 
of  the  low  forms  of  sea  bird  which  nest  along  the 
exposed  rocky  cliffs  of  both  the  Atlantic  and  Pa 
cific  Oceans.  The  breeze  was  still  blowing  and  our 
little  craft  tumbling  about  as  it  approached  the  bar 
of  the  Golden  Gate.  When  a  little  way  out  at  sea, 
we  noticed,  slightly  isolated  from  the  mainland,  a 
large  rock  completely  whitened  with  the  guano  of 
this  bird,  a  fact  indicating  the  presence  of  a  large 
rookery. 

The  wind,  which  had  been  uncomfortably  brisk 
inside  the  bay,  left  us  almost  entirely  after  we  were 
well  off  the  shore,  and  we  were  soon  rolling  aimless 
ly  on  the  broad  ocean  swells,  with  only  now  and  then 
a  puff  of  air  to  make  the  sails  flap.  Thus  we  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day,  the  great  glassy  undulating 
surface  of  the  sea  rocking  us  about  upon  the  very 
threshold  of  our  journey,  with  the  bleak  coast-line 
visible  far  behind  us — bold,  bare  and  black  in  hue, 
save  for  some  yellow  patches  of  dead  grass — and 
the  Farallones  lost  in  the  mist  at  sea.  The  sun 
went  down  behind  them  and  out  of  the  west  came 
the  cold,  pervasive  fog,  folding  us  in  its  mantle  of 
utter  darkness.  Ships  were  near  us,  becalmed  in 
like  manner.  At  intervals  their  foghorns  blew  and 
our  captain  responded  upon  a  dismal  tin  horn. 
One  ship  drew  so  near  that  we  could  hear  the 


56  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

cries  of  the  men  as  they  tugged  at  the  ropes,  the 
voice  of  the  mate  calling  orders  and  the  noise  of 
the  flapping  sails. 

We  went  supperless  to  bed,  our  stomachs  not  ad 
mitting  of  experiments  with  the  coarse  fare  of  the 
fishermen,  and  lay  in  our  close,  damp  quarters  in 
uneasy  sleep.  At  daybreak  next  morning  the  dark, 
lead-colored  water  and  foggy  air  looked  cheerless 
enough,  but  we  were  consoled  by  the  information 
that  we  were  sailing  under  a  good  breeze  directly 
toward  our  destination.  Soon  the  North  Farallones 
loomed  up  through  the  fog — little  bare  rocks  vis 
ible  only  as  we  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  with 
the  surf  dashing  against  their  sides.  Presently 
Midway  Rock  was  passed  and  at  last  we  were  in 
sight  of  South  Farallone.  Almost  before  we  knew 
it  the  mainsail  had  been  lowered.  As  we  rounded 
a  projecting  rock  the  jib  was  taken  in  and  we  slip 
ped  past  Sugar  Loaf  Rock  into  Fisherman's  Bay, 
where  the  anchor  was  dropped  and  the  fog-horn 
blown  to  summon  the  eggers  on  shore  to  send  us  a 
skiff  in  which  to  land.  Drawing  near  the  island 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  new  and  strange  wonder 
land.  There  was  but  a  bare,  jagged  ridge  of  rock 
cut  out  in  places  into  great  cones  and  pyramids. 
Yonder  was  one  shaped  like  a  titanic  bee-hive  and 
about  it  swarmed  a  vast  throng  of  sea  birds  in  lieu 
of  bees.  Off  toward  the  farther  end  was  a  rock 
with  a  little  archway  cut  through  it  near  the  top. 
The  rocks  were  of  a  light  pinkish  or  cream  color, 
from  the  guano  upon  them,  interspersed  with 
patches  of  pale  green  where  some  mosses  or  lichens 
had  taken  root.  Lower  down,  where  the  waves 
dashed  upon  them,  they  were  clean  and  almost 


rA  Trip  to  the  Farallones  57 

black  in  color,  while  in  beautiful  contrast  to  their 
somber  hue  the  breakers  were  shattered  into  white 
foani  and  pale  green  opaline  tints.  But  that 
which  interested  us  most  was  the  vast  assemblage 
of  birds.  Every  cranny  upon  the  face  of  the  rough, 
granitic  cliffs  was  alive  with  murres,  uttering  their 
characteristic  note,  some  at  rest,  some  fluttering 
and  scrambling  or  bobbing  their  heads,  the  whole 
scene  being  one  of  indescribably  weird  animation, 
and  unlike  anything  else  imaginable  unless  it  be 
the  witches  in  Faust  on  Walpurgis  night.  Here 
and  there  the  black  figure  of  a  cormorant  upon  her 
nest  was  noticed,  or  one  would  fly  past  with  a  fish 
in  her  bill,  headed  toward  her  young.  Occasional 
ly  a  puffin,  or  sea  parrot,  as  he  is  aptly  called — a 
queer  fellow  with  his  immense  red  bill — would  pass 
our  way.  The  most  familiar  birds  were  the  western 
gulls,  which  flocked  about  the  boat  in  considerable 
numbers,  displaying  their  beautiful  slate-blue  man 
tles  and  yellow,  scarlet-spotted  bills.  They  were  at 
tracted  by  the  refuse  of  the  men's  breakfast  which 
had  been  thrown  overboard  in  the  cove,  but  in  spite 
of  their  fine  plumage  and  graceful  actions  they 
proved  to  be  disagreeable,  noisy,  quarrelsome  birds. 
After  our  half  hour  of  impatient  waiting  the 
eggers  appeared  on  the  cliff  above  us,  and,  lower 
ing  a  skiff  which  hung  suspended  from  a  sling, 
rowed  out  to  take  us  ashore.  Once  safely  landed 
we  climbed  up  the  long,  ladder  stairway  to  the  level 
bluff  whence  the  roadway  leads  around  to  the  light 
house  settlement.  Having  fasted  for  thirty-six 
hours  it  was  annoying  to  be  overcome  by  seasick 
ness  and  to  be  compelled  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  in 
lieu  of  breakfast.  However,  time  was  precious. 


58  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

and,  as  we  had  come  on  a  scientific  excursion,  we 
were  determined  to  make  the  best  of  it.  The  eggers 
started  early  on  their  morning's  round,  so  we 
trudged  along  after  them  as  briskly  as  we  could. 

It  may  be  well  to  digress  a  few  moments  to  ex 
plain  the  vocation  of  egging  as  carried  on  at  the 
Farallones  a  few  years  ago.  The  egg  of  the  Cali 
fornia  murre  was  found  to  have  possibilities,  as  a 
marketable  commodity,  of  being  converted  into 
omelettes  and  sundry  other  mysterious  dishes  in 
the  San  Francisco  restaurants.  The  shell  is  so 
tough  that  the  eggs  may  be  tossed  about  almost  as 
freely  as  so  many  cobblestones,  thus  making  the 
cargo  an  especially  easy  one  to  handle.  A  party 
of  Greek  fishermen  made  a  practice  of  camping 
upon  the  Farallones  during  the  egging  season  and 
gathering  enough  eggs  to  keep  one  of  their  largest 
craft  constantly  employed  transporting  them  to 
town.  Upon  establishing  themselves  upon  the 
island  they  would  first  go  about  the  accessible  area 
occupied  by  the  birds  and  destroy  every  egg  which 
could  be  found.  A  day  or  two  later  they  would 
repeat  their  visit,  gathering  a  large  supply  of  fresh 
eggs.  These  visits  were  continued  every  second  or 
third  day  of  the  season,  until  the  resources  of  the 
birds  were  about  exhausted.  The  eggers  wore  rope 
shoes  to  make  their  footing  secure  upon  the  dan 
gerous,  rocky  ledges,  and  the  fronts  of  their  shirts 
were  converted  into  great  pockets  in  which  to  carry 
the  plunder.  Ropes,  to  which  the  men  could  cling 
as  they  advanced,  were  secured  to  the  rocks  in  the 
more  perilous  places.  The  government  has  now 
wisely  put  a  stop  to  this  traffic,  which  was  rapidly 


The  Oaks  of  Titian  59 

depleting   this    locality    of   its   sea    birds. — From 
" Bird  Notes  Afield." 

[All  copyright  privileges  are  retained  by  the  author.] 


THE  OAKS  OF  TULABE 

BY  LILLIAN  HINMAN  SHUEY 

GO  up  the  broad  valley,  the  far  land,  the  fair 
land, 
Where  the  plain  stretches  on  like  a  slumbering 

sea; 
Where   rivers   flow    down   from  high   mountains 

snow-crowned, 
And  the  wind  seeks  the  desert  to  roam  and  be 

free. 

Go  there  when  sweet  April  her  soft  showers  carry 
To  the  wonderful  grove  land,  the  oaks  of  Tulare. 

Go  there  in  bright  June  when  the  slow-creeping 

shadows, 

In  the  rank  meadow  grasses  lie  dewy  and  cool ; 
The  boughs  all  attune  with  the  sky-larks  and  lin 
nets, 
While  the  soft  winds  of  summer  the  leafy  courts 

rule. 

One  still  autumn  day  in  thy  green  aisles  to  tarry 
Is  forever  to  love  thee,  dear  oaks  of  Tulare. 

I  see  the  blue  sky  and  the  high  fretted  arches, 
And  the  moss-tangled  branches  all  knotted  and 
gray; 


60  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Fond  memory  pictures  the  calm,  sacred  places 
AVhere  I  waited  and  loitered  that  happy  June 

day. 
While    Hope,    eager-winged    as    some    comforting 

fairy, 
Is  alluring  me  back  to  the  oaks  of  Tulare. 

Great  oaks  leading  up  to  the  steep  sunny  hillsides, 
Stretching  down  to  the  banks  of  the  slow,  wind 
ing  stream, 

I  see,  through  thy  vistas,  the  homestead,  the  cot 
tage, 

And  the  pink-tinted  orchards  in  radiance  gleam. 
Some  day  may  I  rest  there,  long,  glad  years  to 

tarry, 

In  my  wonderful  grove  land,  the  oaks  of  Tulare. 
— From  ''California  Sunshine." 


FEOM  YUMA  TO  SALTON  SEA 

BY  GEORGE  WHAHTON  JAMES 

PURCHASING  two  boats  at  Yuma,  one  a  flat- 
1  bottomed  ordinary  gig,  stoutly  built,  with  six 
oars,  and  the  other  a  mere  tub,  or  light  scow,  with 
flat  bottom  and  stub  nose,  such  as  miners  and  pros 
pectors  have  made  to  float  down  the  Colorado  River, 
our  party  of  six  whites  left  "the  city  of  torrid 
heat."  There  were  Brown  (partner  of  Burton 
Holmes,  the  well-known  lecturer)  ;  Grip  ton,  of  New 
York ;  Van  Anderson,  of  New  York ;  Judson,  dean 
of  Fine  Arts  Department  of  University  of  South- 

[From  "The  Wonders  of  the  Colorado  Desert,"  bV  George 
Wharton  James.  Copyright,  1906,  by  Edith  E.  Farns- 
worth.] 


From  Yuma  to  Salton  Sea  61 

ern  California ;  Lea,  missionary  to  the  Yumas,  and 
myself,  whom  the  boys  in  fun  called  ''Commo 
dore." 

We  had  been  warned  of  the  dangers  and  diffi 
culties  we  were  sure  to  encounter.  There  were 
some  ten  miles  where  the  wild  river  ran  through 
a  mesquite  forest,  through  which  we  should  have 
to  cut,  push,  force  our  way.  Then  if  we  succeeded 
in  getting  through  the  mesquite  and  reached 
Sharps — the  point  in  Mexico  where  the  waters  are 
taken  and  distributed  through  head-gates  into  the 
irrigating  canals  of  the  Imperial  country — we 
should  have  some  fifty  miles  of  the  Alamo  River 
to  run  which  had  never  before  been  done.  The 
difference  in  level  between  the  water  at  Sharps  and 
at  the  Salton  Sea  is  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  and 
a  fall  of  three  hundred  feet  in  fifty  miles  surely 
meant  rapids  galore;  indeed  we  were  warned  that 
we  should  make  the  "fifty  miles  in  fifty  minutes.'* 
Then  the  engineers  assured  us  that  the  force  of  the 
flood  had  so  scoured  out  the  channel  that  the  banks, 
from  being  mere  ridges,  were  now  high  walls, 
thirty,  forty,  fifty  and  more  feet  high,  and  one 
great  danger  to  be  apprehended  and  guarded 
against  was  the  fact  that  the  rapid  flow  of  the 
stream  was  constantly  undermining  certain  por 
tions  of  these  banks  and  they  fell  into  the  stream 
in  such  vast  quantity  that  they  would  destroy  or 
sink  any  boat  unfortunate  enough  to  be  under 
them.  This  was  a  serious  enough  danger,  as  we 
afterwards  learned,  when  we  saw  thousands  of  tons 
of  earth  fall,  sending  up  great  waves  which  came 
near  swamping  our  boats. 

Certain  custom-house  officers  whom  we  met  as- 


62  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

sured  us  that  we  should  all  be  good  ship-carpenters 
before  our  trip  was  concluded,  and  another  desert 
humorist  warned  us  to  be  ready  with  an  axe  so 
that  when  snags  came  through  the  bottom  of  our 
boats  we  could  cut  them  off.  Then,  said  he,  "You'll 
have  enough  from  what  you've  cut  off  to  use  as 
firewood. ' ' 

We  were  a  jolly  party  when  we  set  out  from 
Yuma.  Easily  we  drifted  with  the  current,  our 
artist  impatient  all  the  time  to  catch  the  marvelous 
colors  that  seemed  to  be  produced  that  evening  for 
his  especial  delectation.  I  shall  never  forget  his 
delight  when  I  pulled  inshore  and  called  out, 
''Camp  for  the  night."  Forgetful  of  everything, 
he  jumped  out  and  came  near  being  swallowed  up 
in  the  quick,:  r.nd,  for  here  there  is  little  or  no  clay 
to  make  wet  parts  of  the  banks  secure.  Without 
waiting,  however,  to  cleanse  himself  from  the  mud, 
he  fixed  his  easel  and  in  a  few  moments  was  obliv 
ious  to  the  world  in  the  revelry  of  color  the  sunset 
was  giving  him. 

By  noon  the  next  day  we  were  examining  the 
work  being  done  for  the  permanent  head-gate,  a 
magnificent  reinforced  concrete  structure  that  is  to 
receive  the  main  supply  of  water  for  the  Imperial 
region. 

Later  in  the  day  we  came  down  to  the  scene  of 
the  desperate  efforts — six  in  number — made  to  con 
trol  the  unexpected  flood  of  the  Colorado,  already 
described. 

A  mile  or  so  below  this  point  we  reached  the  busy 
and  bustling  camp  of  the  lower  intake,  with  store, 
bakery,  large  dining  tents,  doctor's  office,  steam 
engines,  pile-drivers,  centrifugal  suction  pumps, 


From  Yuma  to  Salton  Sea  63 

electric  light  plants,  all  revealing  the  great  activity 
and  determined  pressure  of  the  work.  All  the  men 
that  could  possibly  be  used  were  working  day  and 
night  on  the  construction  of  the  Rockwood  head- 
gate. 

Here  our  Indians  joined  us  for  the  main  part  of 
the  trip.  Talk  about  Indians  being  fools !  They 
were  both  keen?  observing,  wide-awake,  daring, 
serene  in  the  face  of  danger,  self-contained  and 
hard-working.  There's  many  a  white  man  who 
would  look  down  on  these  " savages"  who  could 
not  begin  to  compare  with  them  in  intelligence  and 
practical  usefulness. 

Leaving  the  lower  intake  in  three  boats  with  six 
whites  and  these  two  Indians  we  started  down  the 
Alamo — as  the  canal  should  properly  be  termed. 
For  the  first  ten  miles  it  was  plain,  easy,  smooth 
floating  on  the  bosom  of  a  great  river,  for,  as  I 
have  shown,  all  the  water  of  the  Colorado  was  pour 
ing  through  the  " temporary  cut"  into  it.  The 
great  volume  had  widened  and  deepened  the  chan 
nel  until  now  it  was  no  longer  a  "canal,"  but  a 
mighty  river,  nearly  1,000  feet  across. 

At  the  end  of  this  ten  miles  our  troub'es  began. 
As  we  had  been  warned,  we  found  the  river  had 
left  its  bed  and  overflowed  the  country  in  every 
direction,  in  all  of  which  was  a  mesquite  forest. 
The  mesquite,  for  all  practical  purposes  where  man 
is  concerned,  should  be  called  the  mescratch,  for  its 
thorns  are  large,  sharp  and  penetrating.  As  the 
diminished  current  bore  us  on  we  ran  end  on, 
stern  on,  sidewise,  anyhow,  into  these  mesquite 
thorns.  I  was  in  the  front  boat,  in  the  bow,  seeking 
the  way.  As  the  stream  divided  and  subdivided  it 


64  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

required  speedy  observation  to  tell  which  was  the 
larger  current  and  follow  it,  and  Jim  and  I  were 
kept  very  busy.  There  was  no  time  given  for  de 
cision,  for  we  were  borne  on  into  one  of  the  waiting 
trees,  ready  to  pierce  us  from  "stem  to  stern "  with 
its  poisonous  thorns.  I  learned  to  "take"  them 
head  on  as  a  goat  takes  its  foes.  Pulling  my  broad- 
brimmed  sombrero  over  my  ears,  lifting  up  my  coat 
collar  and  lowering  my  head  I  "butted  in."  But 
the  fun  came  when  we  stuck  there.  Fun?  Oh,  it 
was  great,  to  find  yourself  lodged  in  the  heart  of 
the  branches  of  a  mesquite,  the  thorns  making 
fresh  punctures  in  your  tires  at  very  movement, 
and  the  uneasy  current  beneath  swaying  and 
swinging  you  to  and  fro !  Many  a  time  we  had  to 
resort  to  machete,  hatchet  or  axe  and  literally  chop 
our  way  through.  Then;  as  the  many  divisions  and 
diversions  of  the  current  reduced  the  flow  of  water, 
we  ran  on  to  sandbars  in  these  mesquites  and  for 
hours  at  a  time  we  had  to  wade  in  the  water,  up 
to  our  middles,  often  sinking  in  the  quicksands  up 
to  our  knees  and  higher,  lifting,  pushing,  pulling, 
straining  to  get  our  boats  along,  while  the  mesquite 
thorns  got  in  their  work. 

And  the  joy  of  it  was  increased  as  night  came 
on.  We  were  still  in  the  thick  of  it.  No  place  to 
camp.  Not  a  sign  of  dry  bank  anywhere.  There 
was  nothing  for  us  but  to  stop  in  the  first  Break 
big  enough  for  three  boats  to  be  tied  side  by  side, 
for  misery  loves  and  needs  company,  and  eating 
our  cold  supper,  scratched  from  top  to  toe,  wet 
through,  muddy,  bedraggled,  and  wretched  in  ap 
pearance,  our  "joy"  was  added  to  by  a  heavy 


UNIVERSITY 


From  Yuma  to  Salt  on  Sea  65 

downpour  of  rain.  Physically  we  were  so  miser 
able  that  it  made  us  laugh. 

Where  were  we  to  sleep? 

Nowhere  but  in  the  boats.  Now  it  cannot  be 
conceded  that  the  slats  at  the  bottom  of  a  boat  are 
at  all  conducive  to  sleep',  especially  when  the  slats 
are  wet  and  very  muddy.  With  evident  shrinking 
these  scions  of  noble  houses  stretched  out  their 
blankets.  Brownie  and  Lea  took  the  scow,  the  two 
Indians  the  bow  of  the  big  boat,  Grippie  the  wide 
stern-seat,  to  which  he  built  an  extension  for  his 
feet,  and  Van  on  the  slats  below,  while  I  had  the 
other  small  boat  to  myself. 

My!  how  it  did  pour,  and  I  guess  those  boats 
leaked  extra  on  purpose.  Wet  through,  I  awoke  to 
find  Van  wringing  out  his  blankets,  and  at  another 
time  to  hear  Grippie  laughing  as  if  he  would  burst. 
""What's  up?"  I  asked,  to  which  he  gave  the  in 
telligible  response,  "I'm  laughing  because  I'm  so 
miserable.  '  ' 

No  hot  coffee  !  no  hot  steak  !  no  steaming  fried 
onions  !  no  hot  anything,  except  a  hot  temper  !  But 
we  had  vowed  we  would  "grin  and  bear"  whatever 
came  along,  so  with  "brave  hearts  and  dauntless 
spirits"  we  swallowed  a  cold  biscuit  and  started  on. 

It  was  four  times  worse  that  morning  than  it 
had  been  the  preceding  day.  Hour  after  hour  we 
toiled  along,  up  to  the  waist  in  water,  chopping, 
cutting,  pushing,  pulling,  and  getting,  scratched, 
mainly  the  latter.  Several  times  we  had  to  cut 
down  mesquite  trees  that  completely  blocked  our 
way,  and  I  never  knew  Before  how  hard  it  was  to 
cut  down  a  tree  below  the  water  line.  For,  of 
course,  if  the  stump  was  left  high  enough  to  pre- 


66  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

vent  our  boats  going  over  them,  we  might  as  well 
have  left  the  trees  standing. 

Hour  after  hour  it  kept  up,  until  at  last  peace 
reigned  within,  for  we  were  back  again  in  the  main 
current  and  channel.  The  contour  of  the  country 
here  is  such  that,  while  a  small  part  of  the  water 
had  escaped  and  flowed  off  by  way  of  the  Rio 
Padrones,  the  larger  amount  converges  and  re- 
enters  the  banks  of  the  Alamo  at  a  point  called 
Seven  Wells.  As  soon  as  we  could  we  camped, 
spread  out  our  bedding  to  dry,  while  Brownie  made 
sweet  music  with  steak,  onions,  potatoes  and  corn 
on  the  frying-pan  and  stew-kettles. 

That  night  in  camp  on  the  Alamo  we  uneasily 
tossed  on  our  blankets,  for  all  of  us  had  a  number 
of  thorns  deep  seated  in  various  and  many  parts 
of  our  systems.  While  the  thorns  in  our  bodies 
made  our  sleep  that  night  somewhat  disturbed,  it 
was  a  great  improvement  upon  the  night  we  spent 
in  the  boats. 

The  following  day  we  had  reasonably  good  row 
ing,  though  the  wind  arose  and  blew  dead  against 
us  for  several  miles.  But  with  a  fair  current  in 
pur  favor  we  were  able  to  make  headway. 

That  afternoon  we  reached  Sharps,  the  point  in 
Mexico  where  the  waters  of  the  river  are  taken 
and  diverted  into  the  canals  of  the  Imperial  reg 
ion.  Leaving  one  of  our  boats  here,  we  were  soon 
gliding  easily  along  down  the  strong  current. 
There  was  a  trifle  of  nervousness  at  first,  lest  we 
get  too  far  apart,  and  one  or  the  other  of  us  get 
into  trouble,  so  the  order  was,  "Keep  close  to 
gether,  and  listen  for  each  other's  signals."  Our 
first  rapid  gave  us  quite  a  little  thrill.  It  was  noth- 


From  Tuma  to  Salt  on  Sea  67 

ing  very  great  or  dangerous,  but  to  hear  the  roar 
and  rush,  and  swish  and  dash  of  the  water,  and  to 
see  the  rising  and  falling,  the  spray  and  spume,  and 
the  marked  descent  of  the  whole  river  for  fifty  feet 
or  more,  led  us  to  wonder  if  we'd  get  through  all 
right.  Indian  Jim  at  the  oars  and  I  with  the  steer 
ing  oar,  we  sent  our  boat  right  into  the  heart  of  it, 
and  in  a  moment  we  were  rising  and  falling,  toss 
ing  and  bouncing,  from  one  wave  to  another.  We 
shipped  a  little  water,  but  not  enough  to  scare  us, 
so  it  was  with  bolder  hearts  we  ran  the  next  and 
the  next. 

Soon  the  lookout  called,  "Two  water-tanks 
ahead, ' '  and  when  we  all  arose  to  see,  there  loomed 
before  us  on  the  right,  the  tanks  of  the  power  house 
at  Holtville.  We  tied  up  here,  for  three  of  our 
party,  Brownie,  Gripton  and  Lea,  had  to  leave  us, 
and  Indian  Joe  went  with  them.  They  took  team 
for  Imperial,  while  Van  Anderson,  Indian  Jim  and 
I  were  left  to  run  the  rapids  alone. 

The  question  arose  in  my  mind :  Shall  we  go  in 
two  boats  or  one?  The  square-nosed  scow  had 
served  us  so  well  I  hated  to  part  with  it,  so  with 
out  consulting  the  others  I  decided  to  handle  it 
myself.  We  started,  and  almost  immediately  ran 
into  a  "nasty"  place.  The  railway  bridge  crosses 
the  Alamo  a  short  distance  from  where  we  were 
camped.  It  rests  upon  piles  which  stand  obliquely 
to  the  course  of  the  river.  The  result  was  that  my 
boat  was  swept  down  and  struck  the  piles,  swerved 
into  a  snag  with  a  lot  of  branches  which  had  caught 
in  nearly  the  same  spot,  and  came  near  upsetting. 
There  I  was,  held  fast  by  the  force  of  the  current, 
and  imprisoned  in  the  arms  of  the  snag.  It  took 


68  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

quite  a  time  of  pulling,  pushing  and  cutting  be 
fore  I  got  loose.  Then  on  we  went  again. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  real  fun  of  the 
trip.  That  afternoon  and  the  next  day  we  must 
have  run  over  fifty  rapids,  some  short,  some  long, 
some  rough  and  dangerous,  but  most  of  them  just 
exhilarating  and  exciting.  How  one's  blood  tingled 
with  the  dash  and  roar,  the  speed  and  the  tossing, 
and  how  one 's  hands,  wrists  and  arms  had  to  work 
to  keep  the  boat  safe  while  in  the  middle  of  the 
rapids!  We  had  no  great  rocks  to  contend  with, 
but  something  equally  dangerous.  The  rapids  were 
filled  with  heavy  masses  of  ll  nigger-head "  clay, 
and  once  or  twice  I  got  ugly  bumps  on  these 
"heads"  that  shook  the  boat  from  end  to  end  and 
nearly  toppled  me  head  over  heels. 

In  several  places  the  river  widened  out  for  half 
a  mile,  or  even  a  mile,  and  the  flats  were  covered 
with  ducks,  geese  and  pelicans.  I  think  I  saw  more 
of  these  aquatic  birds  in  these  two  or  three  days 
than  I  had  seen  in  the  whole  of  my  previous  life. 
In  some  cases  we  were  allowed  to  come  as  near  to 
them  as  fifty  feet,  and  with  a  gun  an  expert  could 
have  had  his  choice  out  of  the  thousands. 

And  now  we  experienced  the  reality  of  one  of  the 
dangers  against  which  we  had  been  warned  and  that 
I  had  all  along  foreseen.  The  boats  were  about  fifty 
feet  apart.  We  were  in  the  radius  of  a  great  curve. 
The  mad  river  was  here  boring  under  the  bank, 
which  was  fully  forty  feet  high.  No  one  who  has 
not  seen  the  cutting,  or,  literally,  the  auger-like  bor 
ing  power,  of  this  river  in  such  places  can  believe 
the  extent  of  its  work.  It  cut  in  deeply  and  re 
moved  the  entire  foundation  of  the  bank  for  ten, 


From  Tuma  to  Salton  Sea  69 

fifteen,  even  twenty  feet.  Then,  without  a  pre 
monitory  warning,  the  whole  bank  for  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet  back,  dropped  with  a  terrific  splash  in 
to  the  river.  And  it  fell  off  as  if  cut  with  some 
gigantic  machine,  almost  as  straight  as  the  cutter 
slices  a  bar  of  soap.  Both  boats  were  almost 
swamped  by  the  great  waves  that  ensued,  but  for 
tunately  neither  of  us  was  immediately  under  the 
bank,  or  this  account  would  have  had  a  more  som 
ber  ending. 

That  night  we  camped  at  the  deserted  shack  of  a 
settler  who  had  ' '  taken  up '  *  a  homestead.  We  saw 
many  pathetic  evidences  of  a  woman's  presence  in 
the  rude  and  simple  efforts  to  care  for  a  woman's 
comfort.  Just  before  the  shack,  the  rapids  dashed 
on  to  the  sea.  Early  in  the  morning  we  started 
and  for  an  hour  had  hard  rowing.  The  banks  were 
all  gone,  there  was  nothing  but  flats  over  which 
the  river  distributed  itself,  making  it  very  hard  to 
find  the  main  current.  The  wind  began  to  blow 
and  ere  long  a  perfect  gale  made  waves  which  added 
to  our  difficulties.  Soon  I  was  completely  stranded. 
I  had  been  aground  several  times  before,  but  this 
was  permanent.  The  wind  was  blowing  furiously 
and  my  companions  could  not  hear  my  shouts,  but 
fortunately  one  of  them  saw  my  predicament  and 
they  ran  ashore  and  waited.  There  was  but  one 
thing  to  do.  That  was  for  me  to  go  to  them. 
Jumping  into  the  water,  and  sinking  up  almost  to 
the  middle  in  quicksands,  I  struggled  against  the 
wind  to  reach  them.  Each  time  I  pulled  myself 
out  of  the  treacherous  sand  the  wind  blew  me  back, 
and  for  a  while  I  despaired  of  making  headway. 
But  keeping  desperately  at  it  I  succeeded  at  last  in 


70  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

reaching  their  boat,  where  I  fell  over  breathless, 
speechless  and  exhausted.  When  I  was  able  to 
move  we  all  jumped  out  into  the  water  and  lifted 
and  pushed  the  boat  back  to  where  the  other  was 
stranded.  There  we  took  out  everything  of  value, 
and  said  our  final  farewell  to  it. 

But  our  difficulties  were  not  over.  Though  the 
three  of  us  handled  the  oars,  the  six  of  them  made 
so  little  headway  that  two  hours'  rowing  advanced 
us  not  more  than  half  a  mile.  By  this  time  the 
waves  were  running  high  and  furious,  and  Jim, 
the  Indian,  got  scared.  He  cried  out :  ' '  I  no  like 
this  river.  Pretty  soon  we  tip  over  and  this  boat 
he  sink.  We  no  get  there. ' ' 

"Are  you  scared,  Jim?"  I  asked. 

"No!"  he  responded  quickly,  "no  scared,  but  I 
no  like  'em  this  river. ' ' 

Each  time  we  got  into  the  trough  we  shipped  so 
much  water  that  finally  I  decided  to  abandon  the 
attempt  to  cross  the  sea.  Giving  the  order,  we 
turned  stern  to  the  wind  and  soon  rowed  over  the 
flats,  the  water  having  been  blown  over  them  to  a 
depth  of  several  inches  with  the  wind,  and  ran 
ashore  opposite  a  large  volcanic  butte  that  stood 
out  in  the  heart  of  the  desert. 

We  anchored  the  boat  as  well  as  we  could  and 
then  proceeded  to  carry  everything  from  the  boat 
to  the  butte,  where,  pretty  well  above  the  then 
level  of  the  sea,  we  piled  them  up,  covered  them 
with  our  bed-canvas  and  tied  them  down  to  the 
anchoring  rocks. 

Then  we  started,  each  heavily  laden  with  ca 
meras,  canteens  and  food,  for  the  nearest  point  on 
the  railway.  The  efflorescing  salts  made  a  yielding 


Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the  People  71 

crust  on  the  alkali  soil  in  which  we  sank  over  the 
ankles  at  every  step.  One  of  my  ankles  was  soon 
cut  through  and  I  suffered  intensely.  To  add  to 
our  difficulties  we  soon  came  to  the  brink  of  a 
wide  slough,  far  too  deep  for  us  to  ford,  and  it 
was  impossible  to  swim  across  heavy  laden  as  we 
were.  There  was  no  other  course  than  to  go  around 
it,  and  this  added  several  weary  miles  to  our  tramp. 
At  length,  after  full  eighteen  miles  of  a  walk, 
wearied  out  but  glad  at  the  accomplishment  of  our 
trip,  we  reached  Imperial  Junction,  from  which 
point  Indian  Jim  and  I  went  to  Yuma,  while  Van 
Anderson  remained  there  all  night,  taking  the 
morning  train  for  Mecca. — From  "The  Wonders  of 
the  Colorado  Desert." 


LINCOLN,  THE  MAX  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

BY  EDWIN  MABKHAM 

WHEN  the  Norn-Mother   saw  the  Whirlwind 
Hour, 

Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 
She  bent  the  strenuous  Heavens  and  came  down 
To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 
She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road — 
Clay  warm,  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  Earth, 
Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy; 
Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red  earth ; 

The  tang  and  odor  of  the  primal  things — 

The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  rocks; 

The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn ; 


72  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea ; 
The  justice  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves; 
The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars ; 
The  loving  kindness  of  the  wayside  well ; 
The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 
That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  weed 
As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind — 
To  the  grave 's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 
That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

And  so  he  came 

From  prairie  cabin  up  to  Capitol, 
One  fair  Ideal  led  our  chieftain  on. 
Forevermore  he  burned  to  do  his  deed 
With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king. 
He  built  the  rail-pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every  blow, 
The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  stroke, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

So  came  the  Captain  with  the  mighty  heart ; 
And  when  the  step  of  Earthquake  shook  the  house, 
Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  hold, 
He  held  the  ridge  pole  up,  and  spiked  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Home.    He  held  his  place — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at  praise. 
And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  kingly  cedar,  green  with  boughs, 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 

— From  "  Lincoln  and  Other  Poems. " 


The  Desert's  Call  73 

THE  DESERT'S  CALL 

BY  MABY  AUSTIN 

IF  one  is  inclined  to  wonder  at  first  how  so  many 
dwellers  came  to  be  in  the  loneliest  land  that  ever 
came  out  of  God's  hands,  what  they  do  there  and 
why  they  stay,  one  does  not  wonder  so  much  after 
having  lived  there.  None  other  than  this  long- 
brown  land  lays  such  a  hold  on  the  affections.  The 
rainbow  hills,  the  tender  bluish  mists,  the  luminous 
radiance  of  the  spring,  have  the  lotus  charm.  They 
trick  the  sense  of  time,  so  that  once  inhabitating 
there  you  always  mean  to  go  away  without  quite 
realizing  that  you  have  not  done  it.  Men  who  have 
lived  there,  miners  and  cattlemen,  will  tell  you  this, 
not  so  fluently,  but  emphatically,  cursing  the  land 
and  going  back  to  it.  For  one  thing  there  is  the 
divinest,  cleanest  air  to  be  breathed  anywhere  in 
God's  world.  Some  day  the  world  will  understand 
that,  and  the  little  oases  on  the  windy  tops  of  the 
hills  will  harbor  for  healing  its  ailing,  house-weary 
broods.  There  is  promise  there  of  great  wealth  in 
ores  and  earths,  which  is  no  wealth  by  reason  of 
being  so  far  removed  from  water  and  workable  con 
ditions,  but  men  are  bewitched  by  it  and  tempted 
to  try  the  impossible. 

You  should  hear  Salty  Williams  tell  how  he 
used  to  drive  eighteen  and  twenty-mule  teams  from 
the  borax  marsh  to  Mojave,  ninety  miles,  with  the 
trail  wagon  full  of  water  barrels.  Hot  days  the 
mules  would  go  so  mad  for  drink  that  the  clank  of 
the  water  bucket  set  them  into  an  uproar  of  hide 
ous,  maimed  noises  and  a  tangle  of  harness  chains, 


74  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

while  Salty  would  sit  on  the  high  seat  with  the 
sun  glare  heavy  in  his  face,  dealing  out  curses  of 
pacification  in  a  level,  uninterested  voice  until  the 
clamor  fell  off  from  sheer  exhaustion.  There  was  a 
line  of  shallow  graves  along  that  road ;  they  used  to 
count  on  dropping  a  man  or  two  of  every  new  gang 
of  coolies  brought  out  in  the  hot  season.  But  when 
he  lost  his  swamper,  smitten  without  warning  at  the 
noon  hour,  Salty  quit  his  job ;  he  said  it  was  ' '  Too 
hot."  The  swamper  he  buried  by  the  way  with 
stones  upon  him  to  keep  the  coyotes  from  digging 
him  up,  and  seven  years  later  I  read  the  penciled 
lines  on  the  pine  headboard,  still  bright  and  un- 
weathered. 

But  before  that,  driving  up  on  the  Mojave  stage, 
I  met  Salty  again  crossing  Indian  Wells,  his  face 
from  the  high  seat,  tanned  and  ruddy  as  a  harvest 
moon,  looming  through  the  golden  dust  above  his 
eighteen  mules.  The  land  had  called  him. 

The  palpable  sense  of  mystery  in  the  desert  air 
breeds  fables,  chiefly  of  lost  treasure.  Somewhere 
within  its  stark  borders,  if  one  believes  report,  is  a 
hill  strewn  with  nuggets;  one  seamed  with  virgin 
silver;  an  old  clayey  water-bed  where  Indians 
scooped  up  earth  to  make  cooking  pots  and  shaped 
them  reeking  with  pure  gold.  Old  miners  drifting 
about  the  desert  edges,  weathered  into  the  semb 
lance  of  the  tawny  hills,  will  tell  you  tales  like 
those  convincingly.  After  a  little  sojourn  in  that 
land  you  will  believe  them  on  their  own  account. — 
From  "The  Land  of  Little  Rain." 


The  Great  Basin  75 

THE  GREAT  BASIN 

By  COL.  JOHN  C.  FREMONT 

IX  arriving  at  Utah  Lake,  we  had  completed  an 
immense  circuit  of  twelve  degrees  diameter 
north  and  south,  and  ten  degrees  east  and  west; 
and  found  ourselves,  in  May,  1844,  on  the  same 
sheet  of  water  which  we  had  left  in  September, 
1843.  The  Utah  is  the  southern  limb  of  the  Great 
Salt  Lake;  and  thus  we  had  seen  that  remarkable 
sheet  of  water  both  at  its  northern  and  southern 
extremity,  and  were  able  to  fix  its  position  at  these 
two  points.  The  circuit  which  we  had  made,  and 
which  had  cost  us  eight  months  of  time,  and  3,500 
miles  of  traveling,  had  given  us  a  view  of  Oregon 
and  of  North  California  from  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  of  the  two  principal 
streams  which  form  bays  or  harbors  on  the  coast 
of  that  sea.  Having  completed  this  circuit,  and 
being  now  about  to  turn  our  backs  upon  the  Pacific 
slope  of  our  continent,  and  to  recross  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  it  is  natural  to  look  back  upon  our  foot 
steps  and  take  some  brief  view  of  the  leading  fea 
tures  and  general  structure  of  the  country  we  had 
traversed.  These  are  peculiar  and  striking,  and 
differ  essentially  from  the  Atlantic  side  of  the 
country.  The  mountains  all  are  higher,  more  nu 
merous  and  more  distinctly  defined  in  their  ranges 
and  directions;  and,  what  is  so  contrary  to  the 
natural  order  of  formations,  one  of  these  ranges, 
which  is  near  the  coast  (the  Sierra  Nevada  and  the 
Coast  Range),  presents  higher  elevations  and  peaks 
than  any  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  Rocky  rnoun- 


76  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

tains  themselves.  In  our  eight  months'  circuit,  we 
were  never  out  of  sight  of  snow;  and  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  where  we  crossed  it,  was  near  2,000  feet 
higher  than  the  South  Pass  in  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains.  In  height,  these  mountains  greatly  exceed 
those  of  the  Atlantic  side,  constantly  presenting 
peaks  which  enter  the  region  of  perpetual  snow; 
and  some  of  them  volcanic,  and  in  a  frequent  state 
of  activity.  They  are  seen  at  great  distances  and 
guide  the  traveler  in  his  course. 

The  course  and  elevation  of  these  ranges  give 
direction  to  the  rivers  and  character  to  the  coast. 
No  great  river  does,  or  can,  take  its  rise  below  the 
Cascade  and  Sierra  Nevada  range ;  the  distance  to 
the  sea  is  too  short  to  admit  of  it.  The  rivers  of 
the  San  Francisco  Bay,  which  are  the  largest  after 
the  Columbia,  are  local  to  that  Hay,  and  lateral  to 
the  coast,  having  their  sources  about  on  a  line  with 
the  Dalles  of  the  Columbia,  and  running  each  in 
a,  valley  of  its  own,  between  the  Coast  range  and 
the  Cascade  and  Sierra  Nevada  range.  The  Colum 
bia  is  the  only  river  which  traverses  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  country,  breaking  through  all  the 
ranges,  and  entering  the  sea.  Drawing  its  waters 
from  a  section  of  ten  degrees  of  latitude  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  which  are  collected  into  one 
stream  by  three  main  forks  (Lewis's,  Clark's  and 
the  North  fork)  near  the  center  of  the  Oregon 
Valley,  this  great  river  thence  proceeds  by  a  single 
channel  to  the  sea,  while  its  three  forks  lead  each 
to  a  pass  in  the  mountains,  which  opens  the  way 
into  the  interior  of  the  continent.  This  fact  in  re 
lation  to  the  rivers  of  this  region,  gives  an  immense 
value  to  the  Columbia.  Its  mouth  is  the  only  inlet 


The  Great  Basin  77 

and  outlet  to  and  from  the  sea ;  its  three  forks  lead 
to  the  passes  in  the  mountains ;  it  is,  therefore,  the 
only  line  of  communication  between  the  Pacific 
and  the  interior  of  North  America;  and  all  op 
erations  of  war  or  commerce,  of  national  or  social 
intercourse,  must  be  conducted  upon  it.  This  gives 
it  a  value  beyond  estimation,  and  would  involve 
irreparable  injury  if  lost.  In  this  unity  and  con 
centration  of  its  waters,  the  Pacific  side  of  our  con 
tinent  differs  entirely  from  the  Atlantic  side,  where 
the  waters  of  the  Alleghany  Mountains  are  dis 
persed  into  many  rivers,  having  their  different  en 
trances  into  the  sea,  and  opening  many  lines  of 
communication  with  the  interior. 

The  Pacific  Coast  is  equally  different  from  that 
of  the  Atlantic.  The  coast  of  the  Atlantic  is  low 
and  open,  indented  with  numerous  bays,  sounds 
and  river  estuaries,  accessible  everywhere  and 
opening  by  many  channels  into  the  heart  of  the 
country.  The  Pacific  Coast,  on  the  contrary,  is 
high  and  compact,  with  few  bays,  and  but  one  that 
opens  into  the  heart  of  the  country.  The  imme 
diate  coast  is  what  the  seamen  call  iron-baund.  A 
little  within,  it  is  skirted  by  two  successive  ranges 
of  mountains,  standing  as  ramparts  between  the 
sea  and  the  interior  of  the  country;  and  to  get 
through  which  there  is  but  one  gate,  and  that  nar 
row  and  easily  defended.  This  structure  of  the 
coast,  backed  by  these  two  ranges  of  mountains, 
with  its  concentration  and  unity  of  waters,  gives 
to  the  country  an  immense  military  strength,  and 
will  probably  render  Oregon  the  most  impregnable 
country  in  the  world. 

Differing  so  much  from  the  Atlantic  side  of  our 


78  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

continent,  in  coast,  mountains  and  rivers,  the  Pa 
cific  side  differs  from  it  in  another  most  rare  and 
singular  feature — that  of  the  Great  Interior  Basin, 
of  which  I  have  so  often  spoken,  and  the  whole 
form  and  character  of  which  I  was  so  anxious  to 
ascertain.  Its  existence  is  vouched  for  by  such  of 
the  American  traders  and  hunters  as  have  some 
knowledge  of  that  region;  the  structure  of  the 
Sierra  Nevada  range  of  mountains  requires  it  to 
be  there ;  and  my  own  observations  confirm  it.  Mr. 
Joseph  Walker,  who  is  so  well  acquainted  in  those 
parts,  informed  me  that,  from  the  Great  Salt  Lake 
west,  there  was  a  succession  of  lakes  and  rivers 
which  have  no  outlet  to  the  sea,  nor  any  connection 
with  the  Columbia,  or  with  the  Colorado  or  the 
Gulf  of  California.  He  described  some  of  these 
lakes  as  being  large,  with  numerous  streams,  and 
even  considerable  rivers  falling  into  them.  In  fact, 
all  concur  in  the  general  report  of  these  interior 
rivers  and  lakes;  and,  for  want  of  understanding 
the  force  and  power  of  evaporation,  which  so  soon 
establishes  an  equilibrium  between  the  loss  and 
supply  of  waters,  the  fable  of  whirlpools  and  sub 
terraneous  outlets  has  gained  belief,  as  the  only 
imaginable  way  of  carrying  off  the  waters  which 
have  no  visible  discharge.  The  structure  of  the 
country  would  require  this  formation  of  interior 
lakes;  for  the  waters  which  would  collect  between 
the  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  Sierra  Nevada,  not 
being  able  to  cross  this  formidable  barrier,  nor  to 
get  to  the  Columbia  or  the  Colorado,  must  natural 
ly  collect  into  reservoirs,  each  of  which  would  have 
its  little  system  of  streams  and  rivers  to  supply  it. 
This  would  be  the  natural  effect;  and  what  I  saw 


The  Great  Basin  79 

went  to  confirm  it.  The  Great  Salt  Lake  is  a  for 
mation  of  this  kind,  and  quite  a  large  one;  and 
having  many  streams  and  one  considerable  river, 
400  or  500  miles  long,  falling  into  it.  This  lake  and 
river  I  saw  and  examined  myself ;  and  also  saw  the 
AVah-Satch  and  Bear  River  Mountains,  which  en 
close  the  waters  of  the  lake  on  the  east,  and  con 
stitute,  in  that  quarter,  the  rim  of  the  Great  Basin. 
Afterwards,  along  the  eastern  base  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  where  we  traveled  for  forty-two  days,  I 
saw  the  line  of  lakes  and  rivers  which  lie  at  the 
foot  of  that  Sierra  and  which  Sierra  is  the  western 
rim  of  the  basin.  In  going  down  Lewis's  fork  and 
the  main  Columbia,  I  crossed  only  inferior  streams 
coming  in  from  the  left,  such  as  could  draw  their 
water  from  a  short  distance  only ;  and  I  often  saw 
the  mountains  at  their  heads  white  with  snow — 
which,  all  accounts  said,  divided  the  waters  of  the 
desert  from  those  of  the  Columbia,  and  which 
could  be  no  other  than  the  range  of  mountains 
which  form  the  rim  of  the  basin  in  its  northern 
side.  And  in  returning  from  California  along  the 
Spanish  trail,  as  far  as  the  head  of  the  Santa  Clara 
fork  of  the  Rio  Virgen>  I  crossed  only  small  streams 
making  their  way  south  to  the  Colorado,  or  lost  in 
sand  (as  the  Mo-hah-ve) ;  while  to  the  left,  the 
lofty  mountains,  their  summits  white  with  snow, 
were  often  visible,  and  which  must  have  turned 
water  to  the  north  as  well  as  to  the  south,  and  thus 
constituted,  on  this  part,  the  southern  rim  of  the 
basin.  At  the  head  of  the  Santa  Clara  fork,  and  in 
the  Vegas  de  Santa  Clara,  we  crossed  the  ridge 
which  parted  the  two  systems  of  waters.  "We  en 
tered  the  basin  at  that  point,  and  have  traveled  in 


80  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

it  ever  since,  having  its  southeastern  rim  (the 
Wah-satch  Mountain)  on  the  right,  and  crossing 
the  streams  which  flow  down  into  it.  The  existence 
of  the  basin  is,  therefore,  an  established  fact  in  my 
mind;  its  extent  and  contents  are  yet  to  be  better 
ascertained.  It  cannot  be  less  than  400  or  500  miles 
each  way,  and  must  lie  principally  in  the  Alta  Cali 
fornia,  the  demarcation  latitude  of  42  degrees 
probably  cutting  a  segment  from  the  north  part  of 
the  rim.  Of  its  interior  but  little  is  known.  It  is 
called  a  desert,  and,  from  what  I  saw  of  it,  sterility 
may  be  its  prominent  characteristic;  but  where 
there  is  so  much  water,  there  must  be  some  oasis. 

The  great  river  and  the  great  lake,  reported, 
may  not  be  equal  to  the  report;  but  where  there 
is  so  much  snow,  there  must  be  streams ;  and  where 
there  is  no  outlet,  there  must  be  lakes  to  hold  the 
accumulated  waters,  or  sands  to  swallow  them  up. 
In  this  eastern  part  of  the  basin,  containing  Sevier, 
Utah,  and  the  Great  Salt  Lakes,  and  the  rivers  and 
creeks  falling  into  them,  we  know  there  is  good  soil 
and  good  grass,  adapted  to  civilized  settlements. 
In  the  western  part,  on  Salmon  Trout  River,  and 
some  other  streams,  the  same  remark  may  Be  made. 

The  contents  of  this  great  basin  are  yet  to  be  ex 
amined.  That  it  is  peopled,  we  know;  but  miser 
ably  and  sparsely.  Prom  all  that  I  heard  and  saw, 
I  should  say  that  humanity  here  appeared  in  its 
lowest  form,  and  in  its  most  elementary  state.  Dis 
persed  in  single  families;  without  firearms;  eating 
seeds  and  insects;  digging  roots  ^(and  hence  their 
name) — such  is  the  condition  of  the  greater  part. 
Others  are  a  degree  higher,  and  live  in  communities 
upon  some  lake  or  river  that  supplies  fish  and  from 


The  Great  Basin  81 

which  they  repulse  the  miserable  digger.  The  rab 
bit  is  the  largest  animal  known  in  this  desert;  its 
flesh  affords  a  little  meat;  and  their  bag-like  cov 
ering  is  made  of  its  skins.  The  wild  sage  is  their 
only  wood,  and  here  it  is  of  extraordinary  size- 
sometimes  a  foot  in  diameter  and  six  or  eight  feet 
high.  It  serves  for  fuel,  for  building  material,  for 
shelter  to  the  rabbits,  and  for  some  sort  of  cover 
ing  for  the  feet  and  legs  in  cold  weather.  Such 
are  the  accounts  of  the  inhabitants  and  productions 
of  the  Great  Basin;  and  which,  though  imperfect, 
must  have  some  foundation,  and  excite  our  desire 
to  know  the  whole. 

The  whole  idea  of  such  a  desert,  and  such  a  peo 
ple,  is  a  novelty  in  our  country,  and  excites  Asiatic, 
not  American,  ideas.  Interior  basins,  with  their 
own  systems  of  lakes  and  rivers,  and  often  sterile, 
are  common  enough  in  Asia ;  people  still  in  the  ele 
mentary  state  of  families,  living  in  deserts,  with  no 
other  occupation  than  the  mere  animal  search  for 
food,  may  still  be  seen  in  that  ancient  quarter  of 
the  globe ;  but  in  America  such  things  are  new  and 
strange,  unknown  and  unsuspected,  and  discredited 
when  related.  But  I  flatter  myself  that  what  is 
discovered,  though  not  enough  to  satisfy  curiosity, 
is  sufficient  to  excite  it,  and  that  subsequent  ex 
plorations  will  complete  what  has  been  commenced. 

This  account  of  the  Great  Basin,  it  will  He  re 
membered,  belongs  to  the  Alta  California,  and  has 
no  application  to  Oregon,  whose  capabilities  may 
justify  a  separate  remark.  Referring  to  my  journal 
for  particular  descriptions,  and  for  sectional 
boundaries  between  good  and  bad  districts,  I  can 
only  say,  in  general  and  comparative  terms,  that 


82  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

in  that  branch  of  agriculture  which  implies  the 
cultivation  of  grains  and  staple  crops  it  would  be 
inferior  to  the  Atlantic  States,  though  many  parts 
are  superior  for  wheat,  while  in  the  rearing  of 
flocks  and  herds  it  would  claim  a  high  place.  Its 
grazing  capabilities  are  great ;  and  even  in  the  in 
digenous  grass  now  there,  an  element  of  individual 
and  national  wealth  may  be  found.  In  fact,  the 
valuable  grasses  begin  within  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  of  the  Missouri  frontier  and  extend  to 
the  Pacific  Ocean.  East  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
it  is  the  short,  curly  grass,  on  which  the  buffalo  de 
lights  to  feed  (whence  its  name  of  buffalo),  and 
which  is  still  good  when  apparently  dry  and  dead. 
West  of  those  mountains  it  is  a  larger  growth,  in 
clusters,  and  hence  called  bunch-grass,  and  which 
has  a  second  or  fall  growth.  Plains  and  mountains 
both  exhibit  them,  and  I  have  seen  good  pasturage 
at 'an  elevation  of  ten  thousand  feet.  In  this  spon 
taneous  product  the  trading  or  traveling  caravans 
can  find  subsistence  for  their  animals,  and  in  mil 
itary  operations  any  number  of  cavalry  may  be 
moved,  and  any  number  of  cattle  may  be  driven; 
and  thus  men  and  horses  may  be  supported  on  long 
expeditions,  and  even  in  winter,  in  the  sheltered 
situations. 

Commercially,  the  value  of  the  Oregon  country 
must  be  great,  washed  as  it  is  by  the  North  Pacific 
Ocean — fronting  Asia — producing  many  of  the  ele 
ments  of  commerce — mild  and  healthy  in  its  cli 
mate — and  becoming,  as  it  naturally  will,  a  thor 
oughfare  for  the  East  India  and  China  trade. — 
From  "A  Narrative  of  Adventures  and  Explora 
tions.  " 


The  Man  of  the  Trail  83 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  TRAIL 

BY  HEXRY  MEADE  BLAND 

A  SPIRIT  that  pulses  forever 
Like  the  fiery  heart  of  a  boy ; 
A  forehead  that  lifts  to  the  sunlight. 

And  is  wreathed  forever  in  joy ; 
A  muscle  that  holds  like  the  iron 

That  binds  in  the  prisoner  steam : 
Yea,  these  are  the  trail-man 's  glory ! 
Yea,  these  are  the  trail-man's  dream! 

An  eye  that  catches  the  beauty 

That  gleams  from  the  mountain  and  sky ; 
And  an  ear  that  awakes  to  the  song 

Of  the  storm,  as  it  surges  on  high ; 
A  sense  that  garners  the  splendor 

Of  sun,  moon,  or  starry  gleam: 
Lo,  these  are  the  trail-man's  glory! 

Lo,  these  are  the  trail-man's  dream! 

The  wild,  high  climb  o'er  the  mountains; 

The  lodge  by  the  river's  brim; 
The  glance  at  the  fierce  cloud-horses 

As  they  plunge  o'er  the  range's  rim; 
The  Jumper's  balm  for  the  nostrils; 

The  dash  in  the  cool  trout-stream : 
Yea,  these  are  the  trail-man's  glory! 

Yea,  these  are  the  trail-man's  dream! 

The  ride  down  fair  river  canyon, 
Where  the  wild  oats  grow  breast  high ; 

And  the  shout  of  the  quail  on  the  hillside ; 
The  turtle-dove  flashing  by; 


84  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

An  eye  'round  the  fragrant  fire, 
Where  the  eyes  of  a  comrade  beam : 

Yea,  these  are  the  trail-man 's  glory ! 
Yea,  these  are  the  trail-man's  dream ! 

— From  '  *  Out  West  Magazine. 


ON  AN  ALASKAN  TRAIL 

BY  ELLA  HIGGINSON 

THE  trip  over  "the  trail"  from  Valdez  to  the 
Tanana  country  is  one  of  the  most  fascinat 
ing  in  Alaska. 

At  seven  o'clock  of  a  July  morning  five  horses 
stood  at  our  hotel  door.  Two  gentlemen  of  Valdez 
had  volunteered  to  act  as  escort  to  the  three  ladies 
in  our  party  for  a  trip  over  the  trail. 

I  examined  with  suspicion  the  red-bay  horse  that 
had  been  assigned  to  me. 

"  Is  he  gentle  ? "  I  asked  of  one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  can't  take  any  one's 
word  about  a  horse  in  Alaska.  They  call  regular 
buckers  'gentle'  up  here.  The  only  way  to  find  out 
is  to  try  them. ' ' 

This  was  encouraging. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  one  of  the  other 
ladies,  "that  you  don't  know  whether  these  horses 
have  ever  been  ridden  by  women  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  do  not  know." 

She  sat  down  on  the  steps. 

' '  Then  there 's  no  trail  for  me.  I  don 't  know  how 
to  ride  nor  to  manage  a  horse." 

After  many  moments  of  persuasion,  we  got  her 


[Copyright  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  1908.] 


On  an  Alaskan  Trail  85 

upon  a  mild-eyed  horse,  saddled  with  a  cross  sad 
dle.  The  other  lady  and  myself  had  chosen  side 
saddles,  despite  the  assurance  of  almost  every  man 
in  Valdez  that  we  could  not  get  over  the  trail  sit 
ting  a  horse  sidewise,  without  accident. 

"Your  skirt '11  catch  in  the  brush  and  pull  you 
off,"  said  one,  cheerfully. 

"Your  feet '11  hit  against  rocks  in  the  canyon," 
said  another. 

"You  can't  balance  as  even  on  a  horse's  back 
sideways,  and  if  you  don't  balance  even  along  the 
precipice  in  the  canyon  your  horse '11  go  over," 
said  a  third. 

'  *  Your  horse  is  sure  to  roll  over  once  or  twice  in 
the  glacier  streams,  and  you  can  save  yourself  if 
you're  riding  astride,"  said  a  fourth. 

"You're  certain  to  get  into  quicksand  somewhere 
on  the  trip,  and  if  your  weight  is  all  on  one  side 
of  your  horse  you'll  pull  him  down  and  he'll  fall 
on  top  of  you,"  said  a  fifth. 

In  the  face  of  all  these  cheerful  horrors,  our  es 
cort  said : 

"Ride  any  way  you  please.  If  a  woman  can 
keep  her  head,  she  will  pull  through  everything  in 
Alaska.  Besides,  we  are  not  going  along  for  noth 
ing!" 

So  we  chose  side-saddles,  that  having  been  our 
manner  of  riding  since  childhood. 

We  had  waited  three  weeks  for  the  glacial  flood 
at  the  eastern  side  of  the  town  to  subside,  and 
could  wait  no  longer.  It  was  roaring  within  ten 
steps  of  the  back  door  of  our  hotel ;  and  in  two  min 
utes  after  mounting,  before  our  feet  were  fairly 
7 


86  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

settled  in  the  stirrups,  we  had  ridden  down  the 
sloping  bank  into  the  boiling,  white  waters. 

One  of  the  gentlemen  rode  ahead  as  guide.  I 
watched  his  big  horse  go  down  in  the  flood — down, 
down ;  the  water  rose  to  its  knees,  to  its  rider 's  feet, 
to  his  knees — 

He  turned  his  head  and  called  cheerfully,  * '  Come 
on ! "  and  we  went  on — one  at  a  time,  as  still  as  the 
dead,  save  for  the  splashing  and  snorting  of  our 
horses.  I  felt  the  water,  icy  cold,  rising  high,  high 
er  ;  it  almost  washed  my  foot  from  the  red-slippered 
stirrup ;  then  I  felt  it  mounting  higher,  my  skirts 
floated  out  on  the  flood,  and  then  fell,  limp,  about 
me.  My  glance  kept  flying  from  my  horse's  head 
to  our  guide  and  back  again.  He  was  tall,  and  his 
horse  was  tall. 

"When  it  reaches  his  waist/'  was  my  agonized 
thought,  * '  it  will  be  over  my  head ! ' ' 

The  other  gentleman  rode  to  my  side. 

"Keep  a  firm  hold  of  your  bridle,"  said  he 
gravely,  "and  watch  your  horse.  If  he  falls — " 

"Falls!    In  here!" 

1 '  They  do  sometimes ;  one  must  be  prepared.  If 
he  falls — of  course  you  can  swim?" 

* '  I  never  swam  a  stroke  in  my  life ;  I  never  even 
tried!" 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  he,  in  astonishment, 
"Why  we  would  not  have  advised  you  to  come  at 
this  time  if  we  had  known  that,  We  took  it  for 
granted  that  you  wouldn't  think  of  going  unless 
you  could  swim." 

"Oh,"  Maid  I,  sarcastically,  "do  all  the  Avomen 
in  Valdez  swim?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "but  then,  they 


On  an  Alaskan  Trail  87 

don't  go  over  the  trail.  Well,  we  can  only  hope 
that  he  will  not  fall.  When  he  breaks  into  a 
swini — " 

"Swim!    Will  he  do  that? " 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  liable  to  swim  any  moment  now." 

"What  will  I  do  then?"  I  asked,  quite  humbly; 
I  could  hear  tears  in  my  own  voice.  He  must  have 
heard  them,  too,  his  voice  was  so  kind  as  he  ans 
wered. 

"Sit  as  quietly  and  as  evenly  as  possible,  and 
lean  slightly  forward  in  the  saddle;  then  trust  to 
heaven  and  give  him  his  head." 

' '  Does  he  give  you  any  warning  ? ' ' 

"Not  the  faintest— ah-h!" 

Well  might  he  say  "ah-h!"  for  my  horse  was 
swimming.  Well  might  we  all  say  "ah-h !"  for  one 
wild  glance  ahead  revealed  to  my  glimmering  vis 
ion  that  all  our  horses  were  swimming. 

I  never  knew  before  that  horses  swam  so  low 
down  in  the  water.  I  wished  when  I  could  see 
nothing  but  my  horse's  ears  that  I  had  not  been  so 
stubborn  about  the  saddle. 

The  water  itself  was  different  from  any  water  I 
had  ever  seen.  It  did  not  flow  like  a  river;  it 
boiled,  seethed,  whirled,  rushed;  it  pushed  up  into 
an  angry  bulk  that  came  down  over  us  like  a  del 
uge.  I  had  let  go  of  my  reins  and,  leaning  for 
ward  in  the  saddle,  was  clinging  to  my  horse's 
mane.  The  rapidly  flowing  water  gave  me  the  im 
pression  that  we  were  being  swept  down  the  stream. 

The  roaring  grew  louder  in  my  ears;  I  was  so 
dizzy  that  I  could  no  longer  distinguish  any  ob 
ject;  there  was  just  a  blur  of  brown  and  white 
water,  rising,  falling,  about  me;  the  sole  thought 


88  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

that  remained  was  that  I  was  being  swept  out  to 
sea  with  my  struggling  horse. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shock  which,  to  my  tor 
tured  nerves,  seemed  like  a  ship  striking  on  a  rock. 
It  was  some  time  before  I  realized  that  it  had  been 
caused  by  my  horse  striking  bottom.  He  was  walk 
ing — staggering,  rather — and  plunging;  his  whole 
neck  appeared,  then  his  shoulders;  I  released  his 
mane  mechanically,  as  I  had  acted  in  all  things 
since  mounting,  and  gathered  up  the  reins. 

"That  was  a  nasty  one,  wasn't  it?"  said  my 
escort,  joining  me.  "I  stayed  behind  to  be  of  serv 
ice  if  you  required  it.  We're  getting  out  now,  but 
there  are  at  least  ten  or  fifteen  as  bad  on  the  trail 
— if  not  worse. ' ' 

As  if  anything  could  be  worse ! 

I  chanced  to  lift  my  eyes  then,  and  I  got  a  clear 
view  of  the  ladies  ahead  of  me.  Their  appearance 
was  of  such  a  nature  that  I  at  once  looked  myself 
over — and  saw  myself  as  others  saw  me!  It  was 
the  first  and  only  time  that  I  have  ever  wished 
myself  at  home  when  I  have  been  traveling  in 
Alaska. 

"Cheer  up!"  called  our  guide,  over  his  broad 
shoulder.  ' l  The  worst  is  yet  to  come. ' ' 

He  spoke  more  truthfully  than  even  he  knew. 
There  was  one  stream  after  another — and  each 
seemed  really  worse  than  the  one  that  went  before. 
From  Valdez  Glacier  the  ice,  melted  by  the  hot 
July  sun,  was  pouring  out  in  a  dozen  streams  that 
spread  over  the  immense  flats  between  the  town  and 
the  mouth  of  the  Lowe  River.  There  were  miles 
and  miles  of  it.  Scarcely  would  we  struggle  out  of 
one  place  that  had  been  washed  out  deep — and 


On  an  Alaskan  Trail  89 

how  deep  we  never  knew  until  we  were  into  it — 
when  we  would  be  compelled  to  plunge  into  an 
other. 

At  last,  wet  and  chilled,  after  several  narrow 
escapes  from  whirlpools  and  quicksand,  we  reached 
a  level  road  leading  through  a  cool  wood  for  sev 
eral  miles.  From  this,  of  a  sudden,  we  began  to 
climb.  So  steep  was  the  ascent  and  so  narrow  the 
path — no  wider  than  the  horse's  feet — that  my 
horse  seemed  to  have  a  series  of  movable  humps  on 
him,  like  a  camel ;  and  riding  sidewise,  I  could  only 
lie  forward  and  cling  desperately  to  his  mane,  to 
avoid  a  shameful  descent  over  his  tail. 

Actually,  there  were  steps  cut  in  the  hard  soil 
for  the  horses  to  climb  upon !  They  pulled  them 
selves  up  with  powerful  plunges.  On  both  sides  of 
this  narrow  path  the  grass,  or  " feed,"  as  it  is  called, 
grew  so  tall  that  we  could  not  see  one  another's 
heads  above  it  as  we  rode;  yet  it  had  been  grow 
ing  only  six  weeks. 

Mingling  with  young  alders,  fireweed,  devil's 
club  and  elderberry — the  latter  sprayed  out  in  scar 
let — it  formed  a  network  across  our  path,  through 
which  we  could  only  force  our  way  with  closed 
eyes,  blind  as  Love. 

Bad  as  the  ascent  was,  the  descent  was  worse. 
The  horse's  humps  all  turned  the  other  way,  and 
we  turned  with  them.  It  was  only  by  constant 
watchfulness  that  we  kept  ourselves  from  sliding 
over  their  heads. 

After  another  ascent,  we  emerged  into  the  open 
upon  the  brow  of  a  cliff.  Below  us  stretched  the 
valley  of  the  Lowe  River.  Thousands  of  feet  be 
low  wound  and  looped  the  blue  reaches  of  the 


90  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

river,  set  here  and  there  with  islands  of  glistening 
sand  or  rosy  fireweed,  while  over  all  trailed  the 
silver  mists  of  morning.  One  elderberry  island 
was  so  set  with  scarlet  sprays  of  berries  that  from 
our  heights  no  foliage  could  be  seen. 

After  this  came  a  scented,  primeval  forest, 
through  which  we  rode  in  silence.  Its  charm  was 
too  elusive  for  speech.  Our  horse's  feet  sank  into 
the  moss  without  sound.  There  was  no  under 
brush  ;  only  dim  aisles  and  arcades  fashioned  from 
the  gray  trunks  of  trees.  The  pale  green  foliage 
floating  above  us  completely  shut  out  the  sun.  Soft, 
gray,  mottled  moss  dripped  from  the  limbs  and 
branches  of  the  spruce  trees  in  delicate,  lacy  fes 
toons. 

Soon  after  emerging  from  this  dream-like  wood 
we  reached  Camp  Comfort,  where  we  paused  for 
lunch. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  comfortable  road  houses 
in  Alaska.  It  is  situated  in  a  low,  green  valley; 
the  river  winds  in  front,  and  snow  mountains  float 
around  it.  The  air  is  very  sweet. 

It  is  only  ten  miles  from  Valdez,  but  those  ten 
miles  are  equal  to  fifty  in  taxing  the  endurance. 

We  found  an  excellent  vegetable  garden  at 
Camp  Comfort.  Pansies  and  other  flowers  were  as 
large  and  fragrant  as  I  have  ever  seen,  the  coloring 
of  the  pansies  being  unusually  rich.  They  told  us 
that  only  two  other  women  had  passed  over  the 
trail  during  the  summer. 

While  our  lunch  was  being  prepared,  we  stood 
about  the  immense  stove  in  the  immense  living 
room  and  tried  to  dry  our  clothing. 

The  room  was  at  least  thirty  feet  square.    It  had 


On  an  Alaskan  Trail  91 

a  high  ceiling  and  rough  board  floor.  In  one  cor 
ner  was  a  piano,  in  another  a  phonograph.  The 
ceiling  was  hung  with  all  kinds  of  trail  apparel 
used  by  men,  including  long  boots  and  heavy  stock 
ings,  guns  and  other  weapons,  and  other  articles 
that  added  a  picturesque  and  even  startling  touch 
to  the  big  room. 

In  one  end  was  a  bench,  buckets  of  water,  tin 
cups  hanging  on  nails,  washbowls,  and  a  little  wavy 
mirror  swaying  on  the  wall.  The  gentlemen  of  our 
party  played  the  phonograph  while  we  removed  the 
dust  and  mud  which  we  had  gathered  on  our  jour 
ney  ;  afterward,  we  played  the  phonograph. 

Then  we  all  stood  happily  about  the  stove  to 
"dry  out,"  and  listened  to  our  host's  stories  of 
the  miners  who  came  out  from  the  Tanana  coun 
try  laden  with  gold.  As  many  as  seventy  men, 
each  bearing  a  fortune,  have  slept  at  Camp  Com 
fort  on  a  single  night.  We  slept  there  ourselves 
on  our  return  journey,  but  our  riches  were  in 
other  things  than  gold,  and  there  was  no  need  to 
guard  them.  Any  man  or  woman  may  go  to 
Alaska  and  enrich  himself  or  herself  forever,  as  we 
did,  if  he  or  she  have  the  desire.  Not  only  is 
there  no  need  to  guard  our  riches,  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  we  are  glad  to  give  freely  to  whomsoever 
would  have. 

Each  man,  we  were  told,  had  his  own  way  of 
caring  for  his  gold !  One  leaned  a  gunny-sack  full 
of  it  outside  the  house,  where  it  stood  all  night  un 
guarded,  supposed  to  be  a  sack  of  old  clothing,  from 
the  carelessness  with  which  it  was  left  there.  The 
owner  slept  calmly  in  the  attic,  surrounded  by 
men  whose  gold  made  their  hard  pillows. 


92  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

They  told  us,  too,  of  the  men  who  came  back, 
dull-eyed  and  empty  handed,  discouraged  and  foot 
sore.  They  slept  long  and  heavily ;  there  was  noth 
ing  for  them  to  guard. 

Every  road  house  has  its  "talking  machine," 
with  many  of  the  most  expensive  records.  No  one 
can  appreciate  one  of  these  machines  until  he  goes 
to  Alaska.  Its  influence  is  not  to  be  estimated  in 
those  far,  lonely  places,  where  other  music  is  not. 

In  a  big  store  "to  Westward"  we  witnessed  a 
scene  that  would  touch  any  heart.  The  room  was 
filled  with  people.  There  were  passengers  and  of 
ficers  from  the  ship,  miners,  Russian  half-breeds, 
and  full-blooded  Aleuts.  After  several  records 
had  filled  the  room  with  melody,  Calve,  herself, 
sang  "The  Old  Folks  at  Home."  As  that  voice  of 
golden  velvet  rose  and  fell,  the  unconscious  work 
ings  of  the  faces  about  me  spelled  out  their  life 
tragedies.  At  last,  one  big  fellow  in  a  flannel  shirt 
started  for  the  door.  As  he  reached  it,  another 
man  caught  his  sleeve  and  whispered  huskily : 

"Where  you  goin',  Bill?" 

"Oh,  anywheres,"  he  made  answer  roughly,  to 
cover  his  emotion;  "anywheres,  so's  I  can't  hear 
that — piece" — and  it  was  not  one  of  the  least  of 
Calve 's  compliments. 

Music  in  Alaska  brings  the  thought  of  home; 
and  it  is  the  thought  of  home  that  plays  upon  the 
heart-strings  of  the  North.  The  hunger  is  always 
there — hidden,  repressed,  but  waiting — and  at  the 
first  touch  of  music  it  leaps  forth  and  casts  its 
shadow  upon  the  face.  Who  knows  but  that  it  is 
this  very  heart-hunger  that  puts  the  universal 
human  look  into  Alaskan  eyes? 


On  an  Alaskan  Trail  93 

After  a  good  lunch  at  Camp  Comfort  we  re 
sumed  our  journey.  There  was  another  bit  of  en 
chanting  forest ;  then,  of  a  sudden,  we  were  in  the 
famed  Keystone  Canyon. 

Here  the  scenery  is  enthralling.  Solid  walls  of 
shaded  gray  stone  rise  straight  from  the  river  to  a 
height  of  from  twelve  to  fifteen  hundred  feet. 
Along  one  cliff  winds  the  trail,  in  many  places  no 
wider  than  the  horse's  feet.  One  feels  that  he 
must  only  breathe  with  the  land  side  of  him,  lest 
the  mere  weight  of  his  breath  on  the  other  side 
should  topple  him  over  the  sheer,  dizzy  precipice. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  every  woman  lean  toward 
the  rock  cliff.  Not  for  the  gold  of  Klondike  would 
I  have  willingly  given  one  look  down  into  the  gulf, 
sinking  away,  almost  under  my  horse 's  feet.  Some 
where  in  those  purple  depths  I  knew  that  the  river 
was  roaring,  white  and  swollen,  between  its  nar 
row  stone  walls 

"We  finally  reached  a  place  where  the  descent 
was  almost  perpendicular  and  the  trail  painfully 
narrow.  The  horses  sank  to  their  haunches  and 
slid  down,  taking  gravel  and  stones  down  with 
them.  I  had  been  imploring  to  be  permitted  to 
walk ;  but  now,  being  far  in  advance  of  all  but  one, 
I  did  not  ask  permission.  I  simply  slipped  off  my 
horse  and  left  him  for  the  others  to  firing  with 
them.  The  gentleman  with  me  was  forced  to  do 
the  same. 

"We  paused  for  a  time  to  rest  and  to  enjoy  the 
most  beautiful  waterfall  I  saw  in  Alaska — Bridal 
Veil.  It  is  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  canyon,  and 
has  a  slow,  musical  fall  of  six  hundred  feet, 

AYhen  we  went  on,  the  other  members  of  our 


94  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

party  had  not  yet  come  up  with  us,  nor  had  our 
horses  appeared.  In  the  narrowest  of  all  narrow 
places  I  was  walking  ahead,  when,  turning  a  sharp 
corner,  we  met  a  government  pack-train,  face  to 
face. 

The  bell  horse  stood  still  and  looked  at  me  with 
big  eyes,  evidently  as  scared  at  the  sight  of  a  wo 
man  as  an  old  prospector  who  has  not  seen  one  for 
years. 

I  looked  at  him  with  eyes  as  big  as  his  own. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  do.  Behind  us  was  a 
narrow,  V-shaped  cave  in  the  stone  wall,  not  more 
than  four  feet  high  and  three  deep.  Into  this  we 
backed,  Grecian-bend  wise,  and  waited. 

We  waited  a  very  long  time.  The  horse  stood 
still,  blowing  his  breath  loudly  from  steaming  nos 
trils,  and  contemplating  us.  I  never  knew  before 
that  a  horse  could  express  his  opinion  of  a  person 
so  plainly.  Around  the  curve  we  could  hear  whips 
cracking  and  men  swearing;  but  the  horse  stood 
there  and  kept  his  suspicious  eyes  on  me. 

"I'll  stay  here  till  dark,"  his  eyes  said,  "but  you 
don't  get  me  past  a  thing  like  that!" 

I  didn't  mind  his  looking,  but  his  snorting 
seemed  like  an  insult. 

At  last  a  man  pushed  past  the  horse.  When  he 
saw  us  backed  gracefully  up  into  the  V-shaped 
cave,  he  stood  as  still  as  the  horse.  Finding  that 
neither  he  nor  my  escort  could  think  of  anything 
to  say  to  relieve  the  mental  and  physical  strain,  I 
called  out  graciously : 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?  Would  you  like  to  get 
by?" 


On  an  'Alaskan  Trail  95 

"I'd  like  it — well,  lady,"  he  replied,  with  what 
I  felt  to  be  his  very  politest  manner. 

"Perhaps,"  I  suggested  sweetly,  "if  I  came  out 
and  let  the  horse  get  a  good  look  at  me — " 

"Don't  you  do  it  lady.  That  'u'd  scare  him 
plumb  to  death!" 

I  have  always  been  convinced  that  he  did  not 
mean  it  exactly  as  it  sounded,  but  I  caught  the 
flicker  of  a  smile  on  my  escort's  face.  It  was  gone 
in  an  instant. 

Suddenly  the  other  horses  came  crowding  upon 
the  bell-horse.  There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do 
but  to  go  past  me  or  to  go  over  the  precipice.  He 
chose  me  as  the  least  of  the  two  evils. 

"Nice  pony,  nice  boy,"  I  wheedled  as  he  went 
sliding  and  snorting  past. 

Then  we  waited  for  the  next  horse  to  come  by; 
but  he  did  not  come.  Turning  my  head,  I  found 
him  fixed  in  the  same  place  and  the  same  attitude 
as  the  first  had  been ;  his  eyes  were  as  big  and  they 
were  set  as  steadily  on  me. 

Well — there  were  fifty  horses  in  that  government 
pack  train.  Every  one  of  the  fifty  balked  at  sight 
of  a  woman.  There  were  horses  of  every  color — 
gray,  white,  black,  bay,  chestnut,  sorrel,  and  pinto. 
The  sorrel  were  the  stubbornest  of  all.  To  this  day 
I  detest  the  sight  of  a  sorrel  horse. 

We  stood  there  in  that  position  for  a  time  that 
seemed  like  hours;  we  coaxed  each  horse  as  he 
balked ;  and  at  the  last  were  reduced  to  such  mis 
ery  that  we  gave  thanks  to  God  that  there  were 
only  fifty  of  them  and  that  they  couldn't  kick  side- 
wise  as  they  passed. 

I  forgot  about  the  men.    There  were  seven  men. 


96  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

and  as  each  man  turned  the  bend  in  the  trail  he 
stood  as  still  as  the  stillest  horse,  and  for  quite  as 
long  a  time ;  and  naturally  I  hesitated  to  say,  "Nice 
boy,  nice  fellow,"  to  help  him  by. 

There  were  more  glacier  streams  to  cross.  These 
were  floored  with  huge  boulders  instead  of  sand 
and  quicksand.  The  horses  stumbled  and  plunged 
powerfully.  One  misstep  here  would  have  meant 
death;  the  rapids  immediately  below  the  crossing 
would  have  beaten  us  to  pieces  upon  the  rocks. 

Then  came  more  perpendicular  climbing ;  but  at 
last,  at  five  o'clock,  with  our  bodies  aching  with 
fatigue  and  our  senses  finally  dulled,  through  sheer 
surfeit,  to  the  beauty  of  the  journey,  we  reached 
"Wortman's"  road  house. 

This  is  twenty  miles  from  Valdez ;  and  when  we 
were  lifted  from  our  horses  we  could  not  stand 
alone,  to  say  nothing  of  attempting  to  walk. 

But  "Workman's''  is  the  paradise  of  road 
houses.  In  it,  and  floating  over  it,  is  an  atmosphere 
of  warmth,  comfort  and  good  cheer  that  is  a  rest 
for  body  and  heart.  The  beds  are  comfortable  and 
the  meals  excellent. 

But  it  was  the  welcome  that  cheered — the  spirit 
of  genuine  kind-heartedness. 

The  road  house  stands  in  a  large  clearing,  with 
barns  and  other  buildings  surrounding  it.  I  never 
saw  so  many  dogs  as  greeted  us,  except  in  Valdez 
or  on  the  Yukon.  They  crowded  about  us,  barking 
and  shrieking  a  welcome.  They  were  all  big  mala- 
mutes. 

After  a  good  dinner  we  went  to  bed  at  eight 
o'clock.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  but  we 
darkened  our  rooms  as  much  as  possible,  and  in- 


The  Way  of  the  Desert  97 

stantly  fell  into  the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion. — 
From  "Alaska." 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  DESERT 

BY  IDAH  MEACHAM  STBOBRIDGE 

UNDER  the  palrns  and  pepper  trees  that  grow 
by  Pacific  waters  I  sit,  and  say,  "This  is 
home;"  and  I  keep  saying  it  over  and  over  again, 
as  a  child  repeats  a  lesson  that  is  hard  to  learn. 
But  repeating  the  words  of  a  lesson  a  hundred 
times  and  more  is  not  learning  it.  Therefore,  I  do 
not  know  my  lesson  yet.  I  have  driven  my  tent 
pegs  here  among  California  roses,  and  under  a  Cal 
ifornia  sky.  I  have  stretched  the  ropes  tight  and 
have  anchored  them  down — to  stay.  Yet  this  is 
not  home.  If  you  would  ask  me  "Why?"  remem 
ber  that  the  tent-canvas  was  weathered  in  a  Desert 
wind,  and  the  ropes  bleached  by  a  Desert  sun. 
Then  the  tent  stood  there  for  long,  in  that  land, 
very  long.  And  tent  pegs  pull  hard  when  driven 
long  in  one  place.  So — though,  there  are  lilies 
and  roses  about  me  and  the  wind  brings  the  salt 
smell  of  the  sea,  yet  would  I  have  the  Desert  alkali 
in  my  nostrils,  and  smell  the  smoke  from  a  grease- 
wood  camp-fire. 

Into  a  gray  Desert  (a  land  of  gray  sage  and  gray 
sand;  of  lizards,  and  little  horned  toads  that  are 
gray;  where  the  coyote  drifts  by  you  like  a  frag 
ment  from  gray  fog-banks  blown  by  the  wind), 
half  a  century  ago,  they  came — the  prospectors — 
seeking  the  Desert's  treasure- trove,  where  the  Des- 


98  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

ert  had  none  hidden  away.  Some  are  yet  seeking 
— following  the  mirage  still. 

Once — long  ago — my  horse  and  I  went  away  into 
the  mirage — land  of  these  old  miners;  and  there  I 
heard  them  voice  the  stories  of  their  hopes — the 
dreams  that  they  believe  will,  some  day,  surely 
come  true.  By  camp-fire  smoke,  or  in  the  dim  light 
of  sod  cabins,  I  have  sat  in  that  silence  the  Desert 
teaches  you,  and  have  listened  as  they  talked,  and 
believed  as  I  listened.  Yes,  even  believed ;  as  you, 
too,  will  believe  if  you  hear  from  their  own  lips  the 
fables  that  seem  so  true  during  the  hour  you  are 
under  the  story-teller's  charm,  with  no  sound 
breaking  in  save  the  crooning  of  the  Desert  wind, 
or  the  cry  of  a  lone  coyote. 

It  may  be  that  the  twilight  hour  that  lies  at  the 
end  of  some  day  that  is  now  far  in  the  future  will 
find  you  there  at  the  grease-wood  camp-fire  of  one 
of  these  old  men.  Then  you  will  know  these  things 
as  I  have  known  them. 

Go  up  into  the  mountains  and  you  will  find  the 
old  prospectors  who  came  into  the  country  in  the 
days  of  their  youth,  and  stay  on  now  through  the 
unrewarding,  quiet  years.  To  the  last  chapter  of 
your  own  life  the  memories  of  them  and  their 
stories  will  be  with  you,  to  link  you  yet  closer  to 
the  old  days  when  you  found  the  trail  that  led  you 
to  the  heart  of  the  Desert. 

Then  live  in  the  big,  still  plains  that  tend  to  a 
big  and  a  serene  life,  learning  the  best  the  Desert 
may  teach  you.  These  things  you  learn : 

That  we  are  what  we  think  and  feel,  not  what 
others  think  and  feel  us  to  be ;  that  mankind  is  a 
brotherhood,  each  needing  the  other,  and  not  one 


The  Way  of  the  Desert  99 

can  be  spared  from  the  unit ;  brothers  are  we,  born 
of  a  common  parentage ;  and  there  is  small  differ 
ence  between  man  and  man,  except  in  so  far  as 
they  are  good  or  bad. 

Therefore  I  repeat  to  you  that  you,  too,  may 
some  day  learn  the  Desert's  lure — the  Desert's 
charm.  Same  time  your  destiny  may  lead  you 
there;  and  lying  awake  in  your  blankets  at  night 
under  the  purple-black  sky  that  is  crowded  with 
palpitating  stars,  with  the  warm  Desert  wind 
blowing  softly  over  you,  caressing  your  face  and 
smoothing  your  hair  as  no  human  hands  ever  could, 
and  bringing  with  it  the  hushed  night-sounds  that 
only  the  land  of  the  grease-wood  and  the  sage 
knows !  then — all  alone  there  with  only  God  and 
the  Desert — you  will  come  to  understand  the  old 
prospector  and  his  ways;  the  Red  Man  who  was 
there  before  him ;  and  all  who,  by  reason  of  years 
of  dwelling  there,  have  made  it  their  own.  But 
not  now ;  not  till  you  and  the  Desert  are  lovers. 

So  I  say  to  you:  "Go I  go  to  the  gray  land  and 
search  till  you  find  its  heart !"  If  you  go,  and  live 
there  long  enough,  you  will  learn  to  love  it.  And 
if  you  love  it  and  go  away,  you  will  never  for  one 
instant  forget  it  in  after  years.  It  will  be  with 
you  in  memory  ever  afterward — a  something  so 
cherished  that  it  has  no  counterpart  elsewhere  in 
all  the  world.  And  always — though  you  go  to  the 
end  of  the  earth — you  will  hear  the  still  voice  call 
ing  and  calling! — From  "In  Miner's  Mirage 
Land." 


100  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

HEIMWEH 

BY  LOWELL  OTUS  REESE 

NOW  the  mountain  breeze  is  blowing  'round  a 
little  cabin  hiding 

Down  among  the  cedar  windfalls  of  the  far  Sier 
ra  hills; 

And  the  music  of  the  torrent  on  the  wind  of  morn 
ing  riding, 
Through  the  balsam-laden  air  in  sweet  harmonic 

measure  thrills ; 
Oh,  the  mellow,  mellow  murmur!     I  can  hear  the 

Naiads  singing 

'Mid  the  bending  boughs  of  alder  where  the  hid 
den  waters  flow; 

And  the  echo  of  their  music  in  an  ecstacy  is  ringing 
Night  and  morning  'round  the  windows  of  a  cab 
in  that  I  know. 

Sweet,  sweet,  waiting  to  greet, 
Over  and  over  the  tongues  repeat, 

Deep  in  the  woodland  gloam, 
"Cool,  cool  is  the  hidden  pool — 

When  are  you  coming  home?" 

Tell  me  what  it  is  that  deep  within  the  bosom  low  is 

crying, 
When   across  the   distant  mountain  comes   the 

whisper  of  the  pine ; 
When  you  wake  at  night  and  listen  to  the  mystic 

voices  sighing 

From  the  far-off  slopes  all  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  columbine; 


Heimweh  101 

Tell  rue  from  what  ancient  era  conies  the  restless 

spirit  stirring 
In  my  breast  when  summer  beckons   and  the 

haunted  breezes  blow, 
Till  I  hear  the  stealthy  footsteps  and  the  wild  wings 

nervous  whirring 

In  the  leafy  forest  temples  'round  a  cabin  that  I 
know. 

Oh,  the  magic  of  the  mountains  when  the  voice  of 

Nature  calling, 

With  a  flood  of  homesick  longing  all  the  yearn 
ing  spirit  fills ! 
When  you  spend  the  long  night's  dreaming  of  the 

early  glory  falling 
In  a  flood  of  gold  and  purple  on  the  greenness 

of  the  hills : 
Who  shall  turn  my  heart  against  her?    Who  shall 

keep  my  feet  from  straying 
To   the  far-off  rocky   valley  where   the  hidden 

waters  flow — 
Where   all   summer   long   I  listen   the    enchanted 

breezes  playing 

In  the  pine  and  cedar  waving  'round  a  cabin  that 
I  know ! 

Hark,  hark!    Out  in  the  dark, 
Whippoonvill's  cry  and  the  fox's  "bark, 

Under  a  starry  dome; 
Near,  clear,  comes  to  my  ear — 

"When  are  you  coming  home?" 


102  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

SAN   FRANCISCO'S   OLD   CHINATOWN 

BY  FRANK  NOERIS 

TpHEY  looked  swiftly  around  them,  and  the 
•I  bustling,  breezy  water-front  faded  from  their 
recollections.  They  were  in  a  world  of  narrow 
streets,  of  galleries  and  overhanging  balconies. 
Craziest  structures,  riddled  and  honey-combed  with 
stairways  and  passages,  shut  out  the  sky,  though 
here  and  there  rose  a  building  of  extraordinary 
richness  and  most  elaborate  ornamentation.  Color 
was  everywhere.  A  thousand  little  notes  of  green 
and  yellow,  of  vermilion  and  sky  blue,  assaulted  the 
eye.  Here  it  was  a  doorway,  here  a  vivid  glint  of 
cloth  or  hanging,  here  a  huge  scarlet  sign  lettered 
with  gold,  and  here  a  kaleidoscopic  effect  in  the 
garments  of  a  passer-by.  Directly  opposite  and 
two  stories  above  their  heads,  a  sort  of  huge  "log 
gia,"  one  blaze  of  gilding  and  crude  vermilion, 
opened  in  the  gray  cement  of  a  crumbling  facade, 
like  a  sudden  burst  of  flame.  Gigantic  pot-bellied 
lanterns  of  red  and  gold  swung  from  its  ceiling, 
while  along  the  railing  stood  a  row  of  pots — brass, 
ruddy  bronze  and  blue  porcelain — from  which 
were  growing  red,  saffron,  purple,  pink  and  golden 
tulips  without  number.  The  air  was  vibrant  with 
unfamiliar  noises.  From  one  of  the  balconies  near 
at  hand,  though  unseen,  a  gong,  a  pipe  and  some 
kind  of  stringed  instrument  wailed  and  thundered 
in  unison.  There  was  a  vast  shuffling  of  padded 
soles  and  a  continuous  interchange  of  singsong 
monosyllables,  high-pitched  and  staccato,  while 
from  every  hand  rose  the  strange  aromas  of  the 


San  Francisco's  Old  Chinatown  103 

East — sandalwood,  punk,  incense,  oil,  and  the  srnell 
of  mysterious  cooking. 

"Chinatown!"  exclaimed  Travis.  "I  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea  we  had  come  up  so  far.  Coudy 
Rivers,  do  you  know  what  time  it  is?"  She  pointed 
a  white  kid  finger  through  the  doorway  of  a  drug 
store,  where,  amid  lacquer  boxes  and  bronze  urns 
of  herbs  and  dried  seeds,  a  round  Seth  Thomas 
marked  half-past  four. 

' '  And  your  lunch  ? ' '  cried  Coudy.  ' '  Great  heav 
ens!  I  never  thought." 

"It's  too  late  to  get  any  at  home.  Never  mind; 
I  '11  go  somewhere  and  have  a  cup  of  tea. ' ' 

"Why  not  get  a  package  of  Chinese  tea,  now 
that  you're  down  here,  and  take  it  home  with 
you?" 

1 ' Or  drink  it  here." 

"Where?" 

"In  one  of  the  restaurants.  There  wouldn't  be 
a  soul  there  at  this  hour.  I  know  they  serve  tea 
any  time.  Coudy,  let's  try  it.  Wouldn't  it  be 
fun?" 

Coudy  smote  his  thigh.  "Pun!"  he  vociferated. 
It  is — it  would  be  heavenly!  Wait  a  moment.  I'll 
tell  you  what  we  will  do.  Tea  won't  be  enough. 
We'll  go  down  to  Kearney  street,  or  to  the  market, 
and  get  some  crackers  to  go  with  it." 

They  hurried  back  to  the  California  market,  a 
few  blocks  distant,  and  bought  some  crackers  and 
a  wedge  of  new  cheese. 

"First  catch  your  restaurant,"  said  Travis,  as 
they  turned  into  Dupont  street  with  its  thronging 
coolies  and  swarming  gayly  clad  children.  But 
they  had  not  far  to  seek. 


104  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

''Here  you  are!"  suddenly  exclaimed  Coudy, 
halting  in  front  of  a  wholesale  tea-house  bearing 
a  sign  in  Chinese  and  English.  "Come  on, 
Travis !" 

They  ascended  two  flights  of  a  broad,  brass- 
bound  staircase  leading  up  from  the  ground  floor 
and  gained  the  restaurant  on  the  top  story  of  the 
building.  As  Travis,  had  foretold,  it  was  deserted. 

The  restaurant  ran  the  whole  depth  of  the  build 
ing,  and  was  finished  off  at  either  extremity  with 
a  gilded  balcony,  one  overlooking  Dupont  street 
and  the  other  the  old  Plaza.  Enormous  screens  of 
gilded  ebony,  intricately  carved  and  set  with  col 
ored  glass  panes,  divided  the  room  into  three,  and 
one  of  these  divisions,  in  the  rear  part,  from  which 
they  could  step  out  upon  the  balcony  that  com 
manded  the  view  of  the  Plaza,  they  elected  as  their 
own. 

It  was  charming.  At  their  backs  they  had  the 
huge,  fantastic  screen,  brave  and  fine  with  its  coat 
of  gold.  In  front,  through  the  glass-paned  valves  of 
a  pair  of  folding  doors,  they  could  see  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  beyond  the  Plaza,  and  beyond  these  the 
blue  of  the  bay  with  its  anchored  ships,  and  even 
beyond  this  the  faint  purple  of  the  Oakland  shore. 
On  either  side  of  these  doors,  in  deep  alcoves,  were 
divans  with  mattings  and  headrests  for  opium 
smokers.  The  walls  were  painted  blue  and  hung 
with  vertical  Cantonese  legends  in  red  and  silver, 
while  all  around  the  sides  of  the  room  small  ebony 
tables  alternated  with  ebony  stools,  each  inlaid 
with  a  slab  of  mottled  marble.  A  chandelier,  all 
a- glitter  with  tinsel,  swung  from  the  center  of  the 
ceiling  over  a  huge  round  table  of  mahogany. 


San  Francisco's  Old  Chinatown  105 

Below  them,  out  there  around  the  old  Plaza,  the 
city  drummed  through  its  work,  with  a  lazy,  sooth 
ing  rumble.  Nearer  at  hand,  Chinatown  sent  up 
the  vague  murmur  of  the  life  of  the  Orient.  In 
the  direction  of  the  Mexican  quarter,  the  b'ell  of 
the  cathedral  knolled  at  intervals.  The  sky  was 
without  a  cloud  and  the  afternoon  wras  warm. 

Coudy  brought  Travis  out  upon  the  balcony  to 
show  her  the  points  of  interest  in  and  around  the 
Plaza. 

''There's  the  Stevenson  memorial  ship  in  the 
center,  see;  and  right  there  where  the  flagstaff  is, 
General  Baker  made  the  funeral  oration  over  the 
body  of  Terry.  Right  opposite  where  that  pawn 
shop  is,  is  where  the  overland  stages  used  to  start 
in  '49.  And  every  other  building  that  fronts  on 
the  Plaza,  even  this  one  we're  in  now,  used  to  be 
a  gambling  house  in  bonanza  times ;  and  see,  over 
yonder  is  the  Morgue  and  the  City  Prison." 

Beyond  these  the  city  tumbled  raggedly  down  to 
meet  the  bay  in  a  confused,  vague  mass  of  roofs, 
cornices,  cupolas  and  chimneys,  blurred  and  indis 
tinct.  Then  came  the  bay.  Beyond  was  the  Contra 
Costa  shore,  a  vast  streak  of  purple  against  the 
sky.  The  eye  followed  its  skyline  westward  till  it 
climbed,  climbed,  climbed  up  a  long  slope  that  sud 
denly  leaped  heavenward  with  the  crest  of  Tamal- 
pais,  purple  and  still,  looking  always  to  the  sun 
set  like  a  great  watching  Sphinx.  Then,  farther 
on,  the  slope  seemed  to  break  like  the  Breaking  of 
an  advancing  billow,  and  go  tumbling,  crumbling 
downward  to  meet  the  Golden  Gate — the  narrow 
inlet  of  green  tide-water  with  its  flanking  Presidio. 
But  farther  than  this  the  eye  was  stayed,  farther 


106  Patlnvay  to  Western  Literature 

than  this  there  was  nothing,  nothing  but  a  vast  il 
limitable  plain  of  green — the  open  Pacific.  But  at 
this  hour  the  color  cf  the  scene  was  its  greatest 
charm.  It  glowed  with  all  the  somber  radiance  of 
a  cathedral.  As  the  afternoon  waned,  the  west 
burned  down  to  a  dull  red  glow  that  overlaid  the 
blue  of  the  bay  with  a  sheen  of  ruddy  gold.  The 
foothills  of  the  opposite  shore,  Diablo,  and  at  last 
even  Tamalpais,  resolved  themselves  to  the  velvet 
gray  of  the  sky.  The  sky  and  land  and  the  city's 
huddled  roofs  were  one.  Only  the  sheen  of  dull 
gold  remained,  piercing  the  single  vast  mass  of  pur 
ple  like  the  blade  of  a  golden  sword. 

' '  There 's  a  ship ! ' '  said  Travis,  in  a  low  tone. 

A  four-master  was  dropping  quietly  through  the 
Golden  Gate,  swimming  on  that  sheen  of  gold,  a 
mere  shadow.  In  a  few  moments  her  bows  were 
shut  from  sight  by  the  old  fort  at  the  Gate.  Then 
her  stern  vanished,  then  the  main-mast.  She  was 
gone.  By  midnight  she  would  be  out  of  sight  of 
land,  rolling  on  the  swell  of  the  lonely  ocean  un 
der  the  moon's  white  eye. 

They  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  a  great,  fat 
Chinaman  brought  them  tea  on  Coudy's  order. 
But,  besides  tea,  he  brought  dried  almonds,  pickled 
watermelon  rinds,  candied  quince  and  "  China 
nuts." 

Travis  cut  the  cheese  into  cubes  with  Coudy's 
penknife,  and  arranged  the  cubes  in  geometric  fig 
ures  upon  the  crackers.  "I  wonder  if  this  green, 
pasty  stuff  is  good,"  she  asked. 

They  found  that  it  was,  but  so  sweet  that  it 
made  their  tea  taste  bitter.  The  watermelon  rinds 
were  flat  to  their  Western  palates,  but  the  dried 


Adventures  of  the  'Forty-miners          107 

almonds  were  a  great  success.  Then  Coudy  prompt 
ly  got  the  hiccoughs  from  drinking  his  tea  too  fast, 
and  fretted  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  chicken 
with  the  pip  till  Travis  grew  weak  and  faint  with 
laughter. 

"Oh,  well/ '  he  exclaimed,  aggrievedly — ''laugh, 
that's  right!  I  don't  laugh.  It  isn't  such  fun 
when  you've  got  'em  yourself — 'hulp.' ' 

''Come  along,  and  don't  be  so  absurd.  It  is  get 
ting  late.  I  wonder/'  said  Travis,  as  they  skirted 
the  Plaza  going  down  to  Kearney  street,  "I  won 
der  if  we  are  talked  out.  I  never  remember  to 
have  had  a  better  time  than  I've  had  to-day,"  she 
said  as  Coudy  put  her  on  the  cable  car.  "Good 
bye,  Coudy;  haven't  we  had  the  jolliest  day  that 
ever  was  ? ' ' 

"Couldn't  have  been  better,"  he  answered. 
"Good-bye,  Travis ! ; '—From  "Blix." 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  'FORTY-NINERS 

BY  WILLIAM  LEWIS  MANLY 

WE  found  the  little  mule  stopped  by  a  still  high 
er  precipice  or  perpendicular  rise  of  fully  ten 
feet.  Our  hearts  sank  within  us  and  we  said  that 
we  should  return  to  our  friends  as  we  went  away, 
with  our  knapsacks  on  our  backs,  and  the  hope  grew 
very  small.  The  little  mule  was  nipping  some  straw 
blades  of  grass  and  as  we  came  in  sight  she  looked 
around  to  us  and  then  up  the  steep  rocks  before  her 
with  such  a  knowing,  intelligent  look  of  confidence 
that  it  gave  us  new  courage.  It  was  a  strange,  wild 


108  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

place.  The  north  wall  of  the  canon  leaned  far  over 
the  channel,  overhanging  considerably,  while  the 
south  wall  sloped  back  about  the  same,  making  the 
walls  nearly  parallel,  and  like  a  huge  crevice  de 
scending  into  the  mountain  from  above  in  a  sloping 
direction. 

We  decided  to  try  to  get  the  confident  little  mule 
over  this  obstruction.  Gathering  all  the  loose  rocks 
we  could,  we  piled  them  up  against  the  south  wall, 
beginning  some  distance  below,  putting  up  all  those 
in  the  bed  of  the  stream  and  throwing  down  others 
from  narrow  shelves  above,  we  built  a  sort  of  in 
clined  plane  along  the  walls,  gradually  rising  till 
we  were  nearly  as  high  as  the  crest  of  the  fall.  Here 
was  a  narrow  shelf  scarcely  four  inches  wide,  and 
a  space  of  from  twelve  to  fifteen  feet  to  cross  to 
reach  the  level  of  the  crest.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
cross  this  space,  and  there  was  no  foundation  to 
enable  us  to  widen  it  so  as  to  make  a  path  for  an 
animal.  It  was  a  forlorn  hope,  but  we  made  the  most 
of  it.  We  unpacked  the  mule,  and  getting  all  our 
ropes  together,  made  a  leading  line  of  it.  Then  we 
loosened  and  threw  down  all  the  projecting  points 
of  rocks  we  could  above  the  narrow  shelf,  and  every 
piece  that  was  likely  to  come  loose  in  the  shelf  itself. 
We  fastened  the  leading  line  to  her  and  with  one 
above  and  one  below,  we  thought  we  could  help  her 
to  keep  her  balance,  and  if  she  did  not  make  a  mis 
step  on  that  narrow  way,  she  might  get  over  safely. 
Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  the  brave  animal 
tried  the  pass.  Carefully  and  steadily  she  went 
along,  selecting  a  place  before  putting  down  a  foot, 
and  when  she  came  to  the  narrow  ledge  leaned 
gently  on  the  rope,  never  making  a  sudden  start  or 


Adventures  of  the  'Forty-miners          109 

jump,  but  cautiously  as  a  cat,  moved  slowly  along. 
There  was  now  no  turning  back  for  her.  She  must 
cross  this  narrow  place  over  which  I,  had  to  creep 
on  hand  and  knees,  or  be  dashed  down  fifty  feet  to 
certain  death.  "When  the  worst  place  was  reached 
she  stopped  and  hesitated,  looking  back  as  well  as 
she  could.  I  was  ahead  with  the  rope,  and  called 
encouragingly  to  her  and  talked  to  her  a  little. 
Rogers  wanted  to  get  all  ready,  and  "  holler"  at 
her  as  loud  as  he  could  and  frighten  her  across,  but 
I  thought  the  best  way  was  to  talk  to  her  gently  and 
let  her  move  steadily. 

I  tell  you,  friends,  it  was  a  trying  moment.  It 
seemed  to  be  weighed  down  with  all  the  trials  and 
hardships  of1  many  months.  It  seemed  to  be  the 
time  when  helpless  women  and  innocent  children 
hung  on  the  trembling  balance  between  life  and 
death.  Our  own  lives  we  could  have  saved  by  going 
back,  and  sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  we  would  per 
haps  save  ourselves  the  additional  sorrow  of  finding 
them  all  dead  to  do  so  at  once.  I  was  so  nearly  in 
despair  that  I  could  not  help  bursting  into  tears, 
and  I  was  ashamed  of  the  weakness.  Finally  Rog 
ers  said,  "Come,  Lewis,"  and  I  gently  pulled  the 
rope,  calling  the  little  animal  to  make  a  trial.  She 
smelled  all  around  and  looked  over  every  inch  of 
the  strong  ledge,  then  took  one  careful  step  after 
another  over  the  dangerous  place.  Looking  back  I 
saw  Rogers  with  a  very  large  stone  in  his  hand, 
ready  to  "holler"  and  perhaps  kill  the  poor  beast 
if  she  stepped.  But  she  crept  along,  trusting  to  the 
rope  to  balance,  till  she  was  half-way  across,  then 
another  step  or  two,  when,  calculating  the  distance 
closely,  she  made  a  spring  and  landed  on  a  smooth 


OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY 


110  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

bit  of  sloping  rock  below,  that  led  up  to  the  highest 
crest  of  the  precipice,  and  safely  climbed  to  the  top, 
safe  and  sound  above  the  falls.  The  mule  had  no 
shoes,  and  it  was  wonderful  how  her  little  hoofs 
clung  to  the  smooth  rock.  We  felt  relieved.  We 
would  push  on  and  carry  food  to  the  people;  we 
would  get  them  through  some  way ;  there  could  be 
no  more  hopeless  moment  than  the  one  just  passed, 
and  we  would  save  them  all. 


Out  of  Death  Valley  we  surely  were.  To  Rogers 
and  I  the  case  seemed  hopeful,  for  we  had  confi 
dence  in  the  road  and  believed  all  would  have  power 
to  weather  difficulties,  but  the  poor  women — it  is 
hard  to  say  what  complaints  and  sorrows  were  not 
theirs.  They  seemed  to  think  they  stood  at  death's 
door,  and  would  as  soon  enter  as  to  take  up  a 
farther  march  over  the  black,  desolate  mountains 
and  dry  plains  before  them,  which  they  considered 
only  a  dreary  vestibule  to  the  dark  door  after  all. 
They  even  had  an  idea  that  the  road  was  longer 
than  we  told  them,  and  they  never  could  live  to 
march  so  far  over  the  sandy,  rocky  roads.  The  first 
day  nearly  satisfied  them  that  it  was  no  use  to  try. 
Rogers  and  I  counted  up  the  camps  we  ought  to 
reach  each  day,  and  in  this  way  we  could  pretty 
nearly  convince  them  of  the  time  that  would  be  con 
sumed  in  the  trip.  We  encouraged  them  in  every 
way  we  could ;  told  them  we  had  better  get  along  a 
little  every  day  and  make  ourselves  a  little  nearer 
the  promised  land,  and  the  very  exercise  would  soon 
make  them  stronger  and  able  to  make  a  full  day's 
march. 


'Adventures  of  the  'Forty-Niners         111 

The  route  was  first  along  the  foot  of  the  high 
peak,  over  bare  rocks,  and  we  soon  turned  south 
somewhat  so  as  to  enter  the  canon  leading  down  to 
the  falls.  The  bottom  of  this  was  thick  with  broken 
rock,  and  the  oxen  limped  and  picked  out  soft 
places  about  as  bad  as  the  women  did.  A  pair  of 
moccasins  would  not  last  long  in  such  rocks  and  we 
hoped  to  get  out  of  them  very  soon.  Rogers  and  I 
hurried  along,  assisting  Arcane  and  his  party  as 
much  as  we  could,  while  Bennett  stayed  behind  and 
assisted  the  women  as  much  as  possible,  taking  their 
arms,  and  by.  this  means  they  also  reached  camp  an 
hour  behind  the  rest. 

A  kettle  of  hot,  steaming  soup,  and  blankets  all 
spread  out  on  which  to  rest,  was  the  work  Rogers 
and  I  had  done  to  prepare  for  them,  and  they  sank 
down  on  the  beds  completely  exhausted.  The  chil 
dren  cried  some,  but  were  soon  pacified,  and  were 
contented  to  lie  still.  A  good  supper  of  hot  soup 
made  them  feel  much  better  all  around. 

The  first  thing  Bennett  and  Arcane  did  was  to 
look  aiound  to  see  the  situation  at  the  falls,  and  see 
if  the  obstacle  was  enough  to  stop  our  progress,  or 
if  we  must  turn  back  and  look  for  a  better  way. 
They  were  in  some  doubt  about  it,  but  concluded  to 
try  and  get  the  animals  over  rather  than  to  take  the 
time  to  seek  another  pass,  which  might  take  a  week 
of  time.  We  men  all  went  down  to  the  foot  of  the 
precipice,  and  threw  out  all  the  large  rocks,  then 
piled  up  all  the  sand  we  could  scrape  together  with 
the  shovel,  till  we  had  quite  a  pile  of  material  that 
would  tend  to  break  a  fall.  "We  arranged  every 
thing  possible  for  a  forced  passage  in  the  morning, 
and  the  animals  found  a  few  willows  to  browse  and 


112  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

a  few  bunches  of  grass  here  and  there,  which  gave 
them  a  little  food,  while  the  spring  supplied  them 
with  enough  water  to  keep  them  from  suffering 
from  thirst. 

Early  in  the  morning,  we  took  our  soup  hastily 
and  with  ropes  lowered  our  luggage  over  the  small 
precipice,  then  the  children,  and  finally  all  the 
ropes  were  combined  to  make  a  single  strong  one 
about  thirty  feet  long.  They  urged  one  of  the  oxen 
up  to  the  edge  of  the  falls,  put  the  rope  around  his 
horns,  and  threw  down  the  end  to  me,  whom  they 
had  stationed  below.  I  was  told  to  pull  hard  when 
he  started  so  that  he  might  not  light  on  his  head 
and  break  his  neck.  We  felt  this  was  a  desperate 
undertaking,  and  we  fully  expected  to  lose  some  of 
our  animals,  but  our  case  was  critical  and  we  must 
take  some  chances.  Bennett  stood  on  one  side  of 
the  ox  and  Arcane  on  the  other,  while  big  Rogers 
was  placed  in  the  rear  to  give  a  Tennessee  boost 
when  the  word  was  given.  ' '  Now  for  it, ' '  said  Ben 
nett,  and  as  I  braced  out  on  the  rope  those  above 
gave  a  push  and  the  ox  came  over  sprawling,  but 
landed  safely,  cut  only  a  little  by  some  angular 
stones  in  the  sand  pile.  "Good  enough,"  said 
some  one,  and  I  threw  the  rope  back  for  another 
ox.  "We'll  get  'em  all  over  safely,"  said  Arcane, 
"if  Lewis,  down  there,  will  keep  them  from  getting 
their  necks  broken. ' '  Lewis  pulled  hard  every  time, 
and  not  a  neck  was  broken.  The  sand  pile  was  re 
newed  every  time,  and  made  as  high  and  soft  as 
possible,  and  very  soon  all  our  animals  were  below 
the  falls.  The  little  mule  gave  a  jump  when  they 
pushed  her  and  landed  squarely  on  her  feet  all 
right.  With  the  exception  of  one  or  two  slight  cuts, 


Bow  Santa  Clans  Came  to  Simpson's  Bar  113 

which  bled  some,  the  oxen  were  all  right  and  we  be 
gan  loading  them  at  once. 

Bennett  and  Arcane  assisted  their  wives  down 
along  the  little  narrow  ledge  which  we  used  in  get 
ting  up,  keeping  their  faces  toward  the  rocky  wall, 
and  feeling  carefully  for  every  footstep.  Thus  they 
worked  along  and  landed  safely  by  the  time  we  had 
the  animals  ready  for  a  march.  We  had  passed 
without  disaster  the  obstacle  we  most  feared,  and 
started  down  the  rough  canon,  hope  revived,  and  we 
felt  we  should  get  through. — From  "Death  Valley 
in  '49. " 


HOW  SANTA  CLAUS  CAME  TO 
SIMPSON'S  BAR 

BY  BRET  HABTE 

IT  was  one  o'clock,  and  yet  he  had  only  gained 
Rattlesnake  Creek.  For  in  that  time  Jovita 
had  rehearsed  to  him  all  her  imperfections  and 
practiced  all  her  vices.  Thrice  had  she  stumbled; 
twice  had  she  thrown  her  Roman  nose  up  in  a 
straight  line  with  the  reins,  and,  resisting  bit  and 
spurs,  struck  out  madly  across  the  country.  Twice 
had  she  reared,  and,  rearing,  fallen  backward ;  and 
twice  had  the  agile  Dick,  unharmed,  regained  his 
seat  before  she  found  her  vicious  legs  again.  And 
a  mile  beyond  them,  at  the  foot  of  a  long  hill,  was 
Rattlesnake  Creek.  Dick,  knowing  that  here  was  the 
crucial  test  of  his  ability  to  perform  his  enterprise, 
set  his  teeth  grimly,  put  his  knees  well  into  her 
flanks,  and  changed  his  defensive  tactics  to  brisk 
aggression.  Bullied  and  maddened,  Jovita  began 


114  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

the  ascent  of  the  hill.  Here  the  artful  Richard  pre 
tended  to  hold  her  in  with  ostentatious  objurgation 
and  well-feigned  cries  of  alarm.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  add  that  Jovita  instantly  ran  away.  Nor  need 
I  state  the  time  made  in  the  descent;  it  is  written 
in  the  chronicles  of  Simpson's  Bar.  Enough  that 
in  another  moment,  as  it  seemed  to  Dick,  she  was 
splashing  on  the  overflowed  banks  of  Rattlesnake 
Creek.  As  Dick  expected,  the  momentum  she  had 
acquired  carried  her  beyond  the  point  of  balking, 
and,  holding  her  well  together  for  a  mighty  leap, 
they  dashed  into  the  middle  of  the  swiftly  flowing 
current.  A  few  moments  of  kicking,  wading  and 
swimming,  and  Dick  drew  a  long  breath  on  the  op 
posite  bank. 

The  road  from  Rattlesnake  Creek  to  Red  Moun 
tain  was  tolerably  level.  Either  the  plunge  in  Rat 
tlesnake  Creek  had  dampened  her  baleful  fire,  or 
the  art  which  led  to  it  had  shown  her  the  superior 
wickedness  of  her  rider,  for  Jovita  no  longer  wasted 
her  surplus  energy  in  wanton  conceits.  Once  she 
bucked,  but  it  was  from  force  of  habit;  once  she 
shied,  but  it  was  from  a  new,  freshly  painted  meet 
ing-house  at  the  crossing  of  the  county  road.  Hol 
lows,  ditches,  gravelly  deposits,  patches  of  freshly 
springing  grasses,  flew  from  beneath  her  rattling 
hoofs.  She  began  to  smell  unpleasantly,  once  or 
twice  she  coughed  slightly,  but  there  was  no  abate 
ment  of  her  strength  or  speed.  By  two  o'clock  he 
had  passed  Red  Mountain  and  began  the  descent 
to  the  plains.  Ten  minutes  later  the  driver  of  the 
fast  Pioneer  coach  was  overtaken  and  passed  by  a 
"man  on  a  Pinto  hoss" — an  event  sufficiently  nota 
ble  for  remark.  At  half-past  two  Dick  rose  in  his 


How  Santa  Clans  Came  to  Simpson's  Bar  115 

stirrups  with  a  great  shout.  Stars  were  glittering 
through  the  rifted  clouds  and,  beyond  him,  out  of 
the  plain  rose  two  spires,  a  flagstaff,  and  a  strag 
gling  line  of  black  objects.  Dick  jingled  his  spurs 
and  swung  his  riata,  Jovita  bounded  forward,  and 
in  another  moment  they  swept  into  Tuttleville,  and 
drew  up  before  the  wooden  piazza  of  * '  The  Hotel  of 
All  Nations." 

What  transpired  that  night  at  Tuttleville  is  not 
strictly  a  part  of  this  record.  Briefly,  I  may  state, 
however,  that  after  Jovita  had  been  handed  over  to 
a  sleepy  hostler,  whom  she  at  once  kicked  into  un 
pleasant  unconsciousness,  Dick  sallied  forth  with 
the  barkeeper  for  a  tour  of  the  sleeping  town.  It 
was  three  o'clock  before  this  pleasantry  was  over, 
and  with  a  small  water-proof  bag  of  India  rubber 
strapped  on  his  shoulders  Dick  returned  to  the 
hotel.  And  then  he  sprang  to  the  saddle  and 
dashed  down  the  lonely  street  and  out  into  the  lone 
lier  plain,  where  presently  the  lights,  the  black  line 
of  houses,  the  spires  and  the  flagstaff  sank  into 
the  earth  behind  him  again  and  were  lost  in  the  dis 
tance. 

The  storm  had  cleared  away,  the  air  was  brisk 
and  cold,  the  outlines  of  adjacent  landmarks  were 
distinct,  but  it  was  half-past  four  before  Dick 
reached  the  meeting-house  and  the  crossing  of  the 
road.  To  avoid  the  rising  grade,  he  had  taken  a 
longer  and  more  circuitous  road,  in  whose  viscid 
mud  Jovita  sank  fetlock  deep  at  every  bound.  It 
was  a  poor  preparation  for  a  steady  ascent  of  five 
miles  more;  but  Jovita,  gathering  her  legs  under 
her,  took  it  with  her  usual  blind,  unreasoning  fury, 
and  a  half  hour  later  reached  the  long  level  that  led 


116  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

to  Rattlesnake  Creek.  Another  half  hour  would 
bring  him  to  the  creek.  He  threw  the  reins  lightly 
over  the  neck  of  the  mare,  chirruped  to  her  and  be 
gan  to  sing. 

Suddenly  Jovita  shied  with  a  bound  that  would 
have  unseated  a  less  practiced  rider.  Hanging  to 
her  rein  was  a  figure  that  had  leaped  from  the 
bank,  and  at  the  same  time  from  the  road  before 
her  arose  a  shadowy  horse  and  rider. 

*  *  Throw  up  your  hands  ! ' '  commanded  the  sec 
ond  apparition,  with  an  oath. 

Dick  felt  the  mare  tremble,  quiver,  and  appar 
ently  sink  under  him.  He  knew  what  it  meant  and 
was  prepared. 

"Stand  aside,  Jack  Simpson.  I  know  you,  you 
thief!  Let  me  pass  on " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Jovita  rose 
straight  in  the  air  with  a  terrific  bound,  throwing 
the  figure  from  her  bit  with  a  single  shake  of  her 
vicious  head,  and  charged  with  deadly  malevolence 
down  on  the  impediment  before  her.  An  oath,  a 
pistol  shot,  and  horse  and  highwayman  rolled  over 
in  the  road,  and  the  next  moment  Jovita  was  a 
hundred  yards  away.  But  the  good  right  arm  of 
her  rider,  shattered  by  a  bullet,  dropped  helplessly 
at  his  side. 

Without  slacking  his  speed  he  shifted  the  reins 
to  his  left  hand.  But  a  few  moments  later  he  was 
obliged  to  halt  and  tighten  the  saddle-girths  that 
had'  slipped  in  the  onset.  This,  in  his  crippled  con 
dition,  took  some  time.  He  had  no  fear  of  pursuit, 
but  looking  up  he  saw  that  the  eastern  stars  were 
already  paling,  and  that  the  distant  peaks  had  lost 
their  ghostly  whiteness,  and  now  stood  out  blackly 


How  Santa  Clans  Came  to  Simpson's  Bar  117 

against  a  lighter  sky.  Day  was  upon  him.  Then 
completely  absorbed  in  a  single  idea,  he  forgot  the 
pain  of  his  wound,  and,  mounting  again,  dashed  on 
toward  Rattlesnake  Creek.  But  now  Jovita 's 
breath  came  by  broken  gasps,  Dick  reeled  in  the 
saddle,  and  brighter  and  brighter  grew  the  sky. 

Ride,  Richard ;  run  Jovita ;  linger,  0  day ! 

For  the  last  few  rods  there  was  a  roaring  in  his 
ears.  Was  it  exhaustion  from  loss  of  blood,  or 
what?  He  was  dazed  and  giddy  as  he  swept  down 
the  hill  and  did  not  recognize  his  surroundings. 
Had  he  taken  the  wrong  road,  or  was  this  Rattle 
snake  Creek?* 

It  was.  But  the  brawling  creek  he  had  swam  a 
few  hours  before  had  risen,  more  than  doubled  its 
volume,  and  now  rolled  a  swift  and  restless  river 
between  him  and  Rattlesnake  Hill.  For  the  first 
time  that  night  Richard's  heart  sank  within  him. 
The  river,  the  mountain,  the  quickening  east,  swam 
before  his  eyes.  He  shut  them  to  recover  his  self- 
control.  In  that  brief  interval,  by  some  fantastic 
mental  process,  the  little  room  at  Simpson's  Bar 
and  the  figures  of  the  sleeping  father  and  son  rose 
upon  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  wildly,  cast  off  his 
coat,  pistol,  boots  and  saddle,  bound  his  precious 
pack  tightly  to  his  shoulders,  grasped  the  bare 
flanks  of  Jovita  with  his  bared  knees,  and  with  a 
shout  dashed  into  the  yellow  water.  A  cry  rose 
from  the  opposite  bank  as  the  head  of  a  man  and 
horse  struggled  for  a  few  moments  against  the  bat 
tling  current,  and  then  were  swept  away  amid  up 
rooted  trees  and  whirling  driftwood. 


118  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

The  Old  Man  started  and  awoke.  The  fire  on  the 
hearth  was  dead,  the  candle  in  the  outer  room  flick 
ering  in  its  socket,  and  somebody  was  rapping  on 
the  door.  He  opened  it,  but  fell  back  with  a  cry 
before  the  dripping,  half-naked  figure  that  reeled 
before  the  doorpost. 

"Dick?" 

"Hush.    Is  he  awake  yet?" 

"No!  but,  Dick." 

"Dry  up,  you  old  fool.  Get  me  some  whisky, 
quick. ' ' 

The  Old  Man  flew  and  returned  with  an  empty 
bottle. 

Dick  would  have  sworn  that  his  strength  was  not 
equal  to  the  occasion.  He  staggered,  caught  at  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and  motioned  to  the  Old  Man. 

"Thar's  suthin'  in  my  pack  fer  Johnny.  Take 
it  off.  I  can't." 

The  Old  Man  unstrapped  the  pack,  and  laid  it 
before  the  exhausted  man. 

"Open  it,  quick." 

He  did  so  with  trembling  fingers.  It  contained 
only  a  few  poor  toys — cheap  and  barbaric  enough, 
goodness  knows,  but  bright  with  paint  and  tinsel. 
One  of  them  was  broken ;  another,  I  fear,  was  irre 
trievably  ruined  by  water,  and  on  the  third — ah 
me,  there  was  a  cruel  spot. 

"It  don't  look  like  much,  that's  a  fact,"  said 
Dick  ruefully.  "But  it's  the  best  we  could  do. 
Take  'em,  Old  Man.,  and  put  'em  in  his  stocking, 
and  tell  him — tell  him,  you  know — hold  me,  Old 
Man. ' '  The  Old  Man  caught  at  the  sinking  figure. 
"Tell  him,"  said  Dick,  with  a  weak  little  laugh — 
"tell  him  Sandy  Glaus  has  come." 


The  Pearls  of  Loreta  119 

And  even  so,  bedraggled,  ragged,  unshaved  and 
unshorn,  with  one  arm  hanging  helplessly  at  his 
side,  Santa  Claus  came  to  Simpson's  Bar  and  fell 
fainting  on  the  first  threshold.  The  Christmas 
dawn  came  slowly  after,  touching  the  remoter 
peaks  with  the  rosy  warmth  of  ineffable  love.  And 
it  looked  so  tenderly  on  Simpson's  Bar  that  the 
whole  mountain,  as  if  caught  in  a  generous  action, 
blushed  to  the  skies. — From  "  Tales  of  the  Argo 
nauts.  ' ' 


[Copyright,  1872,  by  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  Copyright, 
1896,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  Copyright,  1900,  by 
Bret  Harte.  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.,  publishers  of  Bret  Harte's  work.] 


THE  PEARLS  OF  LORETA 

BY  GERTRUDE  ATHERTOX 

THE  fog  lay  thick  on  the  bay  at  dawn  next 
morning.  The  white  waves  hid  the  blue,  muf 
fled  the  roar  of  the  surf.  Now  and  again  a  whale 
threw  a  volume  of  spray  high  in  the  air,  a  geyser 
from  a  phantom  sea.  Above  the  white  sands  strag 
gled  the  white  town,  ghostly,  prophetic. 

De  la  Vega,  a  dark  sombrero  pulled  over  his 
eyes,  a  dark  serape  enveloping  his  tall  figure,  rode, 
unattended  and  watchful,  out  of  the  town.  Not 
until  he  reached  the  narrow  road  through  the  brush 
forest  beyond  did  he  give  his  horse  rein.  The  indo 
lence  of  the  Californian  was  no  longer  in  his  car- 


[Copyright  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  1902.] 


120  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

riage;  it  looked  alert  and  muscular;  recklessness 
accentuated  the  sternness  of  his  face. 

As  he  rode,  the  fog  receded  slowly.  He  left  the 
chaparral  and  rode  by  green  marshes  cut  with 
sloughs  and  stained  with  vivid  patches  of 
orange.  The  frogs  in  the  tules  chanted  their  hoarse 
matins.  Through  brush-covered  plains  once  more, 
with  sparsely  wooded  hills  in  the  distance,  and 
again  the  tules,  the  marsh,  the  patches  of  orange. 
He  rode  through  a  field  of  mustard;  the  pale  yel 
low  petals  brushed  his  dark  face,  the  delicate  green 
leaves  won  his  eyes  from  the  hot  glare  of  the  as 
cending  sun,  the  slender  stalks,  rebounding,  smote 
his  horse's  flanks.  He  climbed  hills  to  avoid  the 
wide  marshes,  and  descended  into  willow  groves 
and  fields  of  daisies.  Before  noon  he  was  in  the 
San  Juan  Mountains,  thick  with  sturdy  oaks,  bend 
ing  their  heads  before  the  madrono,  that  belle  of 
the  forest,  with  her  robes  of  scarlet  and  her  crown 
of  bronze.  The  yellow  lilies  clung  to  her  skirts, 
and  the  buckeye  flung  his  flowers  at  her  feet.  The 
last  redwoods  were  there,  piercing  the  blue  air  with 
their  thin,  inflexible  arms,  gray  as  a  dusty  tiand  of 
friars.  Out  by  the  willows,  whereunder  crept  the 
sluggish  river,  then  between  the  hills  curving  about 
the  valley  of  San  Juan  Bautista. 

At  no  time  is  California  so  beautiful  as  in  the 
month  of  June.  De  la  Vega's  wild  spirit  and  sav 
age  purpose  were  dormant  for  the  moment  as  he 
rode  down  the  valley  toward  the  mission.  The  hills 
were  like  gold,  like  mammoth  fawns  veiled  with 
violet  mist,  like  rich,  tan  velvet.  Afar,  bare  blue 
steeps  were  pink  in  their  chasms,  brown  on  their 
spurs.  The  dark  yellow  fields  were  as  if  thick  with 


The  Pearls  of  Loreta  121 

gold-dust;  the  pale  mustard  was  a  waving  yellow 
sea.  Not  a  tree  marred  the  smooth  hills.  The 
earth  sent  forth  a  perfume  of  its  own.  Below  the 
plateau  from  which  rose  the  white  walls  of  the  mis 
sion  was  a  wide  field  of  bright  green  corn  rising 
against  the  blue  sky. 

The  padres  in  their  brown  hooded  robes  came  out 
upon  the  long  corridor  of  the  mission  and  welcomed 
the  traveler.  Their  lands  had  gone  from  them, 
their  mission  was  crumbling,  but  the  spirit  of  hos 
pitality  lingered  there  still.  They  laid  meat  and 
fruit  and  drink  on  a  table  beneath  the  arches,  and 
sat  about  him  and  asked  him  eagerly  for  the  news 
of  the  day.  Was  it  true  that  the  United  States  of 
America  were  at  war  with  Mexico,  or  about  to  be? 
True  that  their  beloved  flag  might  fall,  and  the 
stars  and  stripes  of  an  insolent  invader  rise  alJove 
the  fort  of  Monterey? 

De  la  Vega  recounted  the  meager  and  conflicting 
rumors  which  had  reached  California,  but,  not  be 
ing  a  prophet,  could  not  tell  them  that  they  would 
be  the  first  to  see  the  red-white-and-blue  fluttering 
on  the  mountain  before  them.  He  refused  to  rest 
more  than  an  hour,  but  mounted  the  fresh  horse 
the  padres  gave  him  and  went  his  way,  riding  hard 
and  relentlessly,  like  all  Californians. 

He  sped  onward,  through  the  long,  hot  day,  leav 
ing  the  hills  for  the  marshes  and  a  long  stretch  of 
ugly  country,  traversing  the  beautiful  San  Antonio 
Valley  in  the  night,  reaching  the  Mission  of  San 
Miguel  at  dawn,  resting  there  for  a  few  hours. 
That  night  he  slept  at  a  hospitable  ranch-house  in 
the  park-like  valley  of  Paso  des  Robles,  a  grim, 
silent  figure  amongst  gay-hearted  people  who  de- 


122  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

lighted  to  welcome  him.  The  early  morning  found 
him  among  the  chrome  hills ;  and  at  the  Mission  of 
San  Luis  Obispo  the  good  padres  gave  him  break 
fast.  The  little  valley,  round  as  a  well,  its  bare 
hills  red  and  brown,  gray  and  pink,  violet  and 
black  from  fire,  sloping  steeply  from  a  dizzy 
height,  impressed  him  with  a  sense  of  being  pris 
oned  in  an  enchanted  vale  where  no  message  of  the 
outer  world  could  come,  and  he  hastened  on  his 
way. 

Absorbed  as  he  was,  he  felt  the  beauty  he  fled 
past.  A  line  of  golden  hills  lay  against  sharp  blue 
peaks.  A  towering  mass  of  gray  rocks  had  been 
cut  and  lashed  by  wind  and  water,  earthquake  and 
fire,  into  the  semblance  of  a  massive  castle,  still 
warlike  in  its  ruin.  He  slept  for  a  few  hours  that 
night  in  the  Mission  of  Santa  Ynes,  and  was  high 
in  the  Santa  Barbara  Mountains  at  the  next  noon. 
For  brief  whiles  he  forgot  his  journey's  purpose  as 
his  horse  climbed  slowly  up  the  steep  trails,  knock 
ing  the  loose  stones  down  a  thousand  feet  and  more 
upon  a  roof  of  tree-tops  which  looked  like  stunted 
brush.  Those  gigantic  masses  of  immense  stones, 
each  wearing  a  semblance  to  the  face  of  man  or 
beast ;  those  awful  chasms  and  stupendous  heights, 
densely  wooded,  bare,  and  many-hued,  rising  above, 
beyond,  peak  upon  peak,  cutting  through  the  visible 
atmosphere — was  there  no  end?  He  turned  in  his 
saddle  and  looked  over  low  peaks  and  canons,  riv 
ers  and  abysms,  black  peaks  smiting  the  fiery  blue, 
far,  far,  to  the  dim  azure  mountains  on  the  horizon. 

''Mother  of  God!"  he  thought;  "no  wonder  Cal 
ifornia  still  shakes!  I  would  I  could  have  stood 
upon  a  star  and  beheld  the  awful  throes  of  this 


The  Pearls  of  Lorcta  123 

country's  birth."  And  then  his  horse  reared  be 
tween  the  sharp  spurs  and  galloped  on. 

He  avoided  the  Mission  of  Santa  Barbara,  rest 
ing  at  a  rancho  outside  the  town.  In  the  morning, 
supplied  as  usual  with  a  fresh  horse,  he  fled  on 
ward,  with  the  ocean  at  his  right,  its  splendid  roar 
in  his  ears.  The  cliffs  towered  high  above  him ;  he 
saw  no  man's  face  for  hours  together;  but  his 
thoughts  companioned  him,  savage  and  sinister 
shapes  whirling  about  the  figure  of  a  woman.  On, 
on,  sleeping  at  ranchos  or  missions,  meeting  hos 
pitality  everywhere,  avoiding  Los  Angeles,  keeping 
close  to  the  ponderous  ocean,  he  left  civilization  be 
hind  him  at  last,  and  with  an  Indian  guide  entered 
upon  that  desert  of  mountain-tops,  Baja,  Cali 
fornia. 

Rapid  traveling  was  not  possible  here.  There 
were  no  valleys  worthy  the  name.  The  sharp  peaks, 
multiplying  mile  after  mile,  were  like  the  teeth  of 
gigantic  rakes,  black  and  bare.  A  wilderness  of 
mountain-tops,  desolate  as  eternity,  arid,  parched, 
baked  by  the  awful  heat,  the  silence  never  broken 
by  the  cry  of  a  bird,  a  hut  rarely  breaking  the  bar 
ren  monotony,  only  an  infrequent  spring  to  save 
from  death.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  get  food 
or  fresh  horses.  Many  a  night  De  la  Vega  and  his 
stoical  guide  slept  beneath  a  cactus,  or  in  the  mock 
ing  bed  of  a  creek.  The  mustangs  he  managed  to 
lasso  were  almost  unridable,  and  would  have 
bucked  to  death  any  but  a  California.  Sometimes 
he  lived  on  cactus  fruit  and  the  dried  meat  he  had 
brought  with  him;  occasionally  he  shot  a  rabbit. 
Again  he  had  but  the  flesh  of  the  rattlesnake 


124  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

roasted  over  coals.  But  honey-dew  was  on  the 
leaves. 

He  avoided  the  beaten  trail,  and  cut  his  way 
through  naked  bushes  spiked  with  thorns,  and 
through  groves  of  cacti  miles  in  length.  When  the 
thick  fog  rolled  up  from  the  ocean  he  had  to  sit 
inactive  on  the  rocks,  or  lose  his  way.  A  furious 
storm  dashed  him  against  a  bowlder,  breaking  his 
mustang's  leg;  then  a  torrent,  rising  like  a  tidal 
wave,  thundered  down  the  gulch,  and,  catching  him 
on  its  crest,  flung  him  upon  a  tree  of  thorns.  When 
dawn  came  he  found  his  guide  dead.  He  cursed 
his  luck,  and  went  on. 

Lassoing  another  mustang,  he  pushed  on,  having 
a  general  idea  of  the  direction  he  should  take.  It 
was  a  week  before  he  reached  Loreta,  a  week  of 
loneliness,  hunger,  thirst  and  torrid  monotony.  A 
week,  too,  of  thought  and  bitterness  of  spirit.  In 
spite  of  his  love,  which  never  cooled,  and  his  cour 
age,  which  never  quailed,  Nature,  in  her  guise  of 
foul  and  crooked  hag,  mocked  at  earthly  happi 
ness,  at  human  hope,  at  youth  and  passion. 

If  he  had  not  spent  his  life  in  the  saddle,  he 
would  have  been  worn  out  when  he  finally  reached 
Loreta,  late  one  night.  As  it  was,  he  slept  in  a  hut 
until  the  following  afternoon.  Then  he  took  a  long 
swim  in  the  bay,  and,  later,  sauntered  through  the 
town. 

The  forlorn  little  city  was  hardly  more  than  a 
collection  of  Indians'  huts  about  a  church  in  a 
sandy  waste.  No  longer  the  capital,  even  the  bar 
racks  were  toppling.  When  De  la  Vega  entered  the 
mission,  not  a  white  man  but  the  padre  and  his  as 
sistant  was  in  it;  the  building  was  thronged  with 


The  Overland  Flyer  125 

Indian  worshipers.  The  mission,  although  the 
first  built  in  California,  was  in  a  fair  state  of  pres 
ervation.  The  Stations  in  their  battered  frames 
were  mellow  and  distinct.  The  gold  still  gleamed 
in  the  vestments  of  the  padre. 

For  a  few  moments  De  la  Vega  dared  not  raise 
his  eyes  to  the  Lady  of  Loreta,  standing  aloft  in 
the  dull  blaze  of  adamantine  candles.  When  he 
did,  he  rose  suddenly  from  his  knees  and  left  the 
mission.  The  pearls  were  there. 

It  took  him  but  a  short  time  to  gain  the  confi 
dence  of  the  priest  and  the  little  population.  He 
offered  no  explanation  for  his  coming,  beyond  the 
curiosity  of  a  traveler.  The  padre  gave  him  a 
room  in  the  mission,  and  spent  every  hour  he  could 
spare  with  the  brilliant  stranger.  At  night  he 
thanked  God  for  the  sudden  oasis  in  his  life's  deso 
lation.  The  Indians  soon  grew  accustomed  to  the 
lonely  figure  wandering  about  the  sand  plains,  or 
kneeling  for  hours  together  before  the  alter  in  the 
church.  And  whom  their  padre  trusted  was  to 
them  as  sacred  and  impersonal  as  the  wooden  saints 
of  their  religion. — From  "The  Splendid  Idle 
Forties. " 


THE  OVERLAND  FLYER 

BY  CHARLES  KEELEE 

TO-TOO!    to-too!   Ka-ding,  ka-dong! 
Down  the  mole  comes  the  flyer 

A-zipping  along, — 

Smoke  clouds  panting  and  hissing  of  steam, 
Rattling  of  rails  and  a  sudden  scream ! 


126  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

The  iron  dragon  snorts  up  to  the  station, 
The  proudest  beast  in  the  wide  creation; 
Fed  on  fire  it  puffs  and  blows, 
Cyclops-eyed  like  a  fiend  it  glows. 

We  kiss  our  hands  to  the  friends  by  the  Bay, 
On  the  dragon's  tail  we  are  whisked  away, 
And  faster  we  whiz  by  the  glistening  shore — 
Towns  spin  past  as  we  ride  with  a  roar. 

Now  the  iron  throat  is  gasping  astrain, 

As  the  beast  up  the  mountain  is  dragging  his  train. 

0  where  are  you  taking  us,  monster  of  steel  ? 
Out  in  the  darkness  the  pine-trees  reel ! 

Over  the  desert  we  swing  and  fly, 

Towns  and  prairies  are  flashing  by; 

When,  lo !  to  your  castle  you  plunge  in  the  night, — 

The  great  walls  tower  in  ghostly  light. 

Does  a  princess  live  in  that  tall  black  tower  ? 
Are  all  of  the  people  here  under  your  power  ? 

1  never  was  certain  that  dragons  were  true 
Till  I  got  on  your  tail  and  rode  with  you ! 

—From  "Elfin  Songs  of  Sunland." 
[All  copyright  privileges  are  retained  by  the  author.] 


A  BREEZE  FROM  THE  WOODS 

BY  W.  C.  BARTLETT 

ONE  learns  to  distinguish  the  sounds  of  this 
multitudinous  life  in  the  woods,  after  a  few 
days,  with  great  facility.    The  bark  of  the  coyote 


rA  Breeze  from  the  Woods  127 

becomes  as  familiar  as  that  of  a  house  dog.  But 
there  is  the  solitary  chirp  of  a  bird  at  midnight, 
never  heard  after  daylight,  of  which  beyond  this 
we  know  nothing.  "We  know  better  from  whence 
come  the  cries,  as  of  a  lost  child  at  night,  far  up 
the  mountain.  The  magpies  and  the  jays  hop 
round  the  tent  for  crumbs ;  and  a  coon  helped  him 
self  from  the  sugar  box  one  day  in  our  absence. 
He  was  welcome,  though  a  question  more  nice  than 
wise  was  raised  as  to  whether,  on  that  occasion,  his 
hands  and  nose  were  clean.  There  is  danger  of 
knowing  too  much.  It  is  better  not  to  know  a  mul 
titude  of  small  things  which  are  like  nettles  to  the 
soul.  "What  strangely  morbid  people  are  those  who 
can  suggest  more  unpleasant  things  in  half  an  hour 
than  one  ought  to  hear  in  a  lifetime !  Did  I  care,  be 
fore  the  question  was  raised,  whether  the  coon 's  nose 
was  clean  or  otherwise?  Now  there  is  a  lurking 
suspicion  that  it  was  not.  If  you  offer  your  friend 
wine,  is  it  necessary  to  tell  him  that  barefooted 
peasants  trampled  out  the  grapes?  Is  honeycomb 
any  the  sweeter  for  a  confession  that  a  bee  was  also 
ground  to  pulp  between  the  teeth?  We  covet  re 
tentive  memories.  But  more  trash  is  laid  up  than 
most  people  know  what  to  do  with.  There  is  great 
peace  and  blessedness  in  the  art  of  forgetfulness. 
The  memory  of  one  sweet,  patient  soul  is  better 
than  a  record  of  a  thousand  selfish  lives. 

It  was  a  fine  conceit,  and  womanly  withal,  which 
wove  a  basket  out  of  plantain  rods  and  clover,  and 
brought  it  into  camp  filled  with  wild  strawberries. 
Thanks,  too,  that  the  faintest  tints  of  carnation  are 
beginning  to  touch  cheeks  that  were  so  pallid  a 
fortnight  ago.  Every  spring  bursting  from  the 


128  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

hillside  is  a  fountain  of  youth,  although  none  have 
yet  smoothed  out  certain  crow  tracks.  The  madro 
no,  the  most  brilliant  of  the  forest  trees,  sheds  its 
outer  bark  every  season ;  when  the  outer  rind  curls 
up  and  falls  off,  the  renewed  tree  has  a  shaft  pol 
ished  like  jasper  or  emerald.  When  humanity  be 
gins  to  wilt,  what  a  pity  that  the  cuticle  does  not 
peel  as  a  sign  of  rejuvenation ! 

There  is  a  sense  of  relief  in  getting  lost  now  and 
then  in  the  impenetrable  fastnesses  of  the  woods; 
and  a  shade  of  novelty  in  the  thought  that  no  foot 
fall  has  been  heard  in  some  of  these  dells  and  jun 
gles  for  a  thousand  years.  It  is  not  so  easy  a  mat 
ter  to  get  lost  after  all.  The  bark  of  every  forest 
tree  will  show  which  is  the  north  side,  and  a  bright 
cambric  needle  dropped  gently  upon  a  dipper  of 
water  is  a  compass  of  unerring  accuracy.  A  scrap 
of  old  newspaper  serves  as  a  connecting  link  with 
the  world  beyond.  The  pyramids  were  probably 
the  first  newspapers — a  clumsy  but  rather  perma 
nent  edition. 

But  let  us  hope  that  the  musician  is  born  who 
will  yet  come  to  the  woods  and  take  down  all  the 
bird  songs.  What  a  splendid  baritone  the  horned 
owl  has !  Who  has  written  the  music  of  the  orioles 
and  thrushes?  Who  goes  to  these  bird  operas  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning?  There  is  room  for 
one  fresh,  original  music  book,  the  whole  of  which 
can  be  written  at  a  few  sittings  upon  a  log  just 
where  the  forests  are  shaded  off  into  copses  and 
islands  of  verdure  beyond. — From  "A  Breeze  from 
the  Woods. " 


Southern  California  Before  the  Boom      129 

SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA  BEFORE  THE 
BOOM 

BY  THEODORE  VAX  DYKE 

FROM  1870  to  1875  Southern  California  was 
passing  out  of  the  control  of  the  large  land 
owners,  nearly  all  of  whom  were  raising  cattle, 
horses  and  sheep  to  the  exclusion  of  everything 
else,  and  into  the  control  of  the  general  farmer  and 
fruit-grower.  These  were  mainly  small  owners  of 
what  had  been  public  land.  Some  of  the  great 
ranchos,  or  Mexican  grants,  which  embraced  the 
greater,  part  of  what  was  then  considered  good 
land,  had  been  opened  by  the  owners  to  settlement. 
But  most  of  the  large  owners  were  unwilling  to  in 
jure  their  stock-range  by  admitting  scattering 
farmers ;  so  that  the  great  majority  of  the  new  set 
tlers  were  upon  the  outlying  tracts  of  public  land 
around  the  edges  of  the  large  ranchos,  and  in  the 
small  pockets  and  valleys  of  the  surrounding  hills. 
In  1875  their  number  was  considerable;  but  their 
work  was  a  combination  of  laziness,  imitation  of 
Mexican  methods,  and  general  shiftlessness,  the  bad 
effects  of  which  were  increased  by  ignorance  of  the 
peculiarities  of  California. 

Almost  every  attempt  of  this  class  to  make  a  dol 
lar  from  the  soil  was  thwarted  by  these  causes. 
Nevertheless  there  was  an  attraction  about  the  soft 
climate  of  winter  and  the  dry,  cool  sea-breeze  of 
summer,  in  the  long  line  of  sunny  days  with  nights 
made  for  soundest  sleep,  and  in  the  absence  of 
storms,  high  winds  and  other  climatic  discomforts, 
that  made  people  stay,  however  unsuccessful,  and 


130  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

steadily  brought  more  to  stay  with  them.  It  was 
a  grand  play-country,  and  one  could  get  along  with 
less  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  United  States  and 
still  be  respectable  and  fat.  But  everyAvhere  there 
was  a  broad  smile  when  some  enthusiastic  new 
comer  said  that  it  would  some  day  be  the  richest 
part  of  the  United  States  outside  the  great  cities. 

Descending  one  day  in  the  fall  of  1875  from  a 
hunt  among  the  foothills  of  one  of  the  great  moun 
tain  ranges  of  Southern  California,  my  companion 
and  I  came  into  a  little  valley  or  pocket  where  one 
of  the  long  slopes  of  a  great  valley  broke  into  the 
hills.  It  contained  some  sixty  acres  of  dark  soil 
along  the  bed  of  a  little  creek,  with  some  reddish 
land  sloping  toward  the  hill  on  one  side.  The  bot 
tom-land  looked  as  if  with  judicious  coaxing  it 
might  be  induced  to  raise  a  bean  or  possibly  a  cab 
bage;  but  nothing  could  seem  more  hopeless  than 
any  attempt  to  raise  anything  on  the  land  that 
sloped  toward  the  hills. 

The  most  conspicuous  thing  about  the  place,  or 
' '  ranche, ' '  as  all  such  places  were  then  called,  was 
a  group  of  some  two  hundred  beehives  set  upon 
low  stands  on  a  bit  of  rising  ground  at  the  base  of 
the  hill.  Around  some  of  them  a  few  bees  were 
lazily  crawling,  but  the  greater  number  of  hives 
were  silent.  Near  by  was  the  ' '  honey-house,  ' '  also 
deserted,  except  where  a  few  bees  were  exploring 
the  keyhole  and  the  chinks  in  the  sides,  lured  by 
the  smell  of  honey  that  still  lingered  within.  Near 
by  a  pile  of  poles  half  hidden  in  decayed  straw  be 
trayed  some  symptoms  of  having  once  been  in 
tended  for  a  stable.  A  little  farther  on  we  came  to 
the  "  ranche  house. "  It  was  of  the  regulation  pat- 


Southern  California  Before  the  Boom      131 

tern  of  the  granger's  house  of  that  time — a  mere 
shell  of  rough  lumber  mounted  upon  stilts,  full  in 
the  sun,  with  its  only  window  on  the  side  from 
which  in  summer  the  breeze  is  certain  never  to 
come.  Under  a  huge  live  oak  behind  the  house 
hung  a  box  with  a  door  and  back  of-  wire  screen, 
through  which  was  dimly  visible  a  long  strip  of 
desiccated  bacon  rind  with  the  butt-ends  of  de 
parted  slices  standing  along  its  inner  surface,  yel 
low  and  gray  with  time — a  melancholy  stub-book 
of  past  prosperity.  All  round  the  house  were  frag 
ments  of  honey-boxes,  masses  of  dead  bees  and 
moth  cocoons,  broken  glass,  empty  tin  cans,  rab 
bit  skins  and  empty  tobacco  sacks,  while  the  outside 
of  the  house  was  adorned  with  nails  full  hung  with 
an  assortment  of  almost  everything  from  a  plow- 
clevis  to  a  weather-beaten  wild-cat  skin. 

A  lank  dog  drew  himself  with  considerable  ef 
fort  from  under  the  house  at  our  approach,  gave  a 
perfunctory  bark,  and  hastily  retreated  to  the 
shade  he  had  unwisely  left.  As  we  rounded  the 
corner  of  the  house  the  sound  of  dragging  feet 
came  from  within,  then  a  stream  of  tobacco  juice 
cleared  the  soapbox  that  served  for  a  door-stoop, 
and  in  another  second  a  bushy  head,  ragged  whisk 
ers  and  frowsy  mustache  came  slowly  into  view 
round  the  door  post. 

"Morning,"  drawled  the  owner  of  the  head, 
propping  himself  with  care  against  the  door-post, 
and  smiling  as  in  my  friend  he  recognized  an  old 
acquaintance. 

"Come  in,"  he  added,  as  he  shuffled  himself  in 
side,  hooked  one  foot  within  one  of  the  legs  of  a 
three-legged  stool  and  gave  it  a  lazy  jerk  into  the 


132  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

middle  of  the  floor,  while  with  the  other  foot  he 
kicked  an  empty  nail-keg  toward  my  companion. 

' '  Take  a  seat, ' '  he  continued,  as,  with  a  minimum 
of  exertion  that  he  had  evidently  studied  out  with 
long  practice,  he  half  slid  and  half  tumbled  upon  a 
rough  cot  in  one  corner. 

The  solar  heat  of  the  autumn  day  upon  the  thin 
roof  was  increased  by  a  fire  in  an  open  fireplace, 
where  a  flapjack  suitable  for  a  cannon  wad  was 
sputtering  in  a  frying-pan. 

''We'll  have  some  dinner  directly,  said  the  own 
er  of  the  frying-pan  with  a  dubious  glance  at  the 
half  of  a  rabbit  that  lay  on  the  table  awaiting  its 
turn  in  the  frying-pan. 

"Can't  stop,  thank  you,"  said  my  companion, 
who  had  taken  a  hasty  review  of  the  larder.  ' '  How 
are  the  bees  doing  ? ' ' 

"Fine!  I  ain't  lost  over  two-thirds  of  mine. 
Some  of  my  neighbors  have  lost  about  all  of  theirs. 
Last  winter  the  rain  was  too  light  and  the  feed 
short,  and  they  robbed  the  bees  too  close.  I  didn't 
have  to  rob  mine.  They  were  so  hungry  they  rob 
bed  each  other  and  saved  me  the  trouble, ' '  said  the 
granger. 

"You  raise  good  fruit  here,  I  suppose?"  I  re 
marked,  quite  innocently. 

"The  bluejays  and  linnets  think  so;  I  never  had 
a  chance  to  sample  any  of  it  myself. ' ' 

"That  land  along  the  creek  looks  like  good  gar 
den  land,"  said  my  friend;  "you  raise  good  vege 
tables  there,  of  course." 

"I've  laid  down  lots  of  them.  I  never  raised 
any  yet." 

"But  you  certainly  raise  your  own  potatoes?" 


Southern  California  Before  the  Boom       133 

"No;  the  squirrels  raise  them  for  me." 

"And  don't  you  have  any  garden  at  all?" 

"Had  one.  one  year,  but  the  chickens  got  away 
with  it." 

"I  don't  see  any  chickens  around  here  now." 

"Of  course  not.  The  wild  cats  got  away  with 
them  by  the  time  they  had  finished  the  garden." 

"Did  you  ever  try  the  raisin-grape  here?" 

"Planted  some  once,  but  the  rabbits  eat  off  the 
buds  as  fast  as  they  came  out. ' ' 

'  *  Well,  you  get  even  on  the  rabbits,  don 't  you  ? '  * 
said  my  friend  with  a  wink  at  me  that  showed  that 
he  was  drawing  out  the  man  for  amusement. 

"The  rabbits  don't  owe  my  anything,"  replied 
the  man.  "I  would  have  been  busted  long  ago 
without  them.  But  they  are  getting  so  scarce  now 
that  I  have  to  go  three  or  four  hundred  yards  from 
the  house  to  get  one.  It's  a  cold  day  when  I  have 
to  split  a  rabbit  to  make  two  meals  out  of.  The 
outlook  for  grub  is  getting  really  serious,"  with  an 
anxious  look  at  the  half  of  a  rabbit. 

"And  didn't  any  of  the  vines  grow  at  all?"  asked 
my  friend. 

"Well,  a  few  did,  but  the  deer  closed  them  out  in 
the  fall." 

"And  can't  you  get  even  on  the  deer?  That's 
the  way  I  do." 

"Too  much  resemblance  to  work,  tramping  over 
these  hills." 

"But  wine  grapes  ought  to  do  well,  and  deer 
don't  bother  them  much." 

"Quails!"  replied  the  man  with  a  sigh. 

"I  should  think  this  would  make  a  good  hog 
ranche,"  continued  my  friend. 
10 


134  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

"Splendid.  I've  got  several  dozen;  they  don't 
require  any  care  here  at  all ;  I  haven 't  had  to  look 
after  mine  for  three  years.  But  I  know  they  are 
safe;  a  grizzly  bear  couldn't  catch  them  in  the 
chaparral,  and  no  man  would  ever  try  it." 

"Why  didn't  you  fence  them  in?"  I  asked. 

' '  What !  and  buy  feed  for  'em  ?  Stranger,  if  it 's 
a  fair  question,  may  I  inquire  where  you  were 
raised?" 

"You  ought  to  raise  corn  on  that  land  over 
there,"  said  my  friend. 

' '  See  those  crows  sitting  in  the  sycamores  ?  Tried 
it  once.  They  are  waiting  for  me  to  try  it  again. 
I'm  waiting  for  them  to  die  of  disappointment." 

"Why  don't  you  try  alfalfa?  Crows  don't  pull 
that  up." 

"Had  just  that  brilliant  idea  myself  once.  It 
only  cost  me  a  hundred  dollars,  though;  that's  the 
cheapest  experience  I've  had  here." 

' '  Why,  what  was  the  matter  ? ' ' 

"Gophers,"  sighed  the  man. 

"Have  you  tried  grain?" 

'  *  Did  you  ever  strike  a  darned  fool  here  yet  that 
didn't?  I  put  in  forty  acres  once.  The  header- 
man,  threshing-machine-man  and  the  warehouse 
man  in  town  all  did  well  on  it. ' ' 

' '  And  how  did  you  come  out  ? ' ' 

"Only  lost  some  three  hundred  dollars." 

"Why,  that  wasn't  so  bad,"  I  remarked. 

' '  Oh,  no ;  it  might  have  been  a  heap  worse ;  I  got 
out  cheap.  One  of  my  neighbors  lost  his  ranche 
by  his  crop." 

"I  suppose,  then,  that  hay  or  something  you 
could  harvest  with  your  own  work  would  b'e  bet- 


Southern  California  Before  the  Boom      135 

ter,"  said  I,  as  soon  as  I  had  discovered  the  point 
of  the  last  answer. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  thought;  so  I  sowed  it  to 
barley  for  hay  the  next  year.  There  was  hardly 
any  rain,  and  I  had  to  pull  it  up  by  the  roots  to  get 
any  hay." 

' '  Why  didn  't  you  let  your  horse  harvest  it  him 
self  1 ' '  said  my  friend,  seeing  that  I  was  floored  by 
the  last  answer. 

"Before  it  got  big  enough  I  had  to  give  him 
away  to  keep  from  buying  feed  for  him.  The 
sheepmen  used  up  all  the  grass  within  ten  miles." 

'  *  How  long  have  you  been  here  ? ' ' 

"Something  like  six  thousand." 

"I  asked  how  long  3-011  had  been  here." 

""Well,  I  tell  you  some  six  thousand.  Don't  you 
know  yet  how  to  measure  time  in  this  country  ? ' ' 

'  *  Oh,  yes,  I  take.  But  what  have  you  done  with 
it  all?" 

""Well,  there's  nearly  five  hundred  dollars  of  it 
in  that  orchard,"  said  the  rancher,  pointing  to  a 
few  rows  of  dead  sticks  in  various  stages  of  decay. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  them?" 

"Cattle  broke  them  all  down  rubbing  against 
them.  You  may  notice  that  good  rubbing  posts  are 
scarce  in  this  country." 

"Why  didn't  you  fence  them  in?" 

' '  Did,  but  a  fire  came  up  the  canon  one  day  and 
took  it." 

"Your  oranges  don't  seem  very  thrifty,"  con 
tinued  my  friend,  pointing  to  some  sorrowful-look 
ing  trees,  of  which  one-half  were  brown  and  the 
rest  a  yellowish  green. 


136  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

"I  let  them  all  go;  it's  too  much  trouble  to  man 
age  an  irritating  ditch." 

"A  what?"  I  asked. 

"He  means  an  irrigating  ditch,"  suggested  my 
companion. 

"No,  I  mean  exactly  what  I  said,"  said  the 
granger — "an  irritating  ditch — the  irritatingest 
thing  on  earth.  When  you  get  ready  to  use  it  you 
find  that  a  gopher  has  made  a  hole  in  the  dam  and 
let  out  all  the  water.  You  get  the  hole  fixed  and 
the  dam  filled  again,  and  then  you  find  a  dozen 
gopher  holes  in  the  ditch.  Each  one  of  them  will 
let  out  all  the  water,  and  you  can't  find  the  worst 
ones  until  you  have  turned  in  the  water.  Then  by 
the  time  you  get  the  ditch  fixed  another  gopher  has 
made  a  hole  in  the  dam,  and  when  you  get  that 
stopped  there  are  some  more  gopher  holes  in  the 
ditch.  By  the  time  you  have  it  fixed  it's  dinner 
time,  and  by  the  time  you  are  done  smoking  and 
get  rested  and  ready  for  work  it's  so  near  night 
that  you  think  it's  better  to  wait  till  next  day.  If 
the  gophers  haven't  got  away  with  it  again  by  that 
time  you  are  in  luck,  and  even  if  they  haven't,  the 
sides  of  the  ditch  are  so  dry  that  half  the  water  is 
lost  by  seepage  and  evaporation,  and  by  the  time 
you  have  coaxed  it  around  a  dozen  trees  you  wish 
you  had  never  been  born,  especially  when  you  re 
flect  that  you  have  got  to  go  over  the  whole  pro 
gram  again  in  about  three  days  more  or  the  ground 
will  bake  as  hard  as  a  petrified  brick. ' ' 

"Then  what  do  you  live  on,  if  you  don't  raise 
anything?"  asked  my  friend. 

' '  Credit.  Haven 't  you  been  here  long  enough  to 
learn  that  trick?" 


Southern  California  Before  the  Boom      137 

"I  exhausted  mine  some  time  ago." 

' '  What  are  you  doing,  then  ? ' '  asked  the  granger 
with  more  interest  than  he  had  yet  shown. 

"Poising." 

"Poising?    What's  that?" 

' '  Did  you  ever  see  a  hawk  poising — hanging  still 
in  the  air  watching  for  something  to  drop  on? 
That 's  my  business  at  present. ' ' 

"Well,  as  long  as  you  can  keep  afloat  on  wind  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  drop  on  anything  in  this 
country. ' ' 

"I  suppose  you  might  be  induced  to  sell?" 

"Well — yes — I — might.  I  have  made  enough 
out  of  it,  and  would  be  willing  to  let  some  one  else 
have  a  show.  There  is  nothing  small  about  me. ' ' 

"And  then  what  would  you  do?" 

"Go  to  work  for  somebody  that  had  a  ranche. 
In  two  years  I  would  own  it." 

"Yes,  and  he  would  turn  around  and  work  for 
you  and  get  it  back  in  another  two  years." 

"Not  much.  I  would  be  too  smart  to  run  an 
other  ranche  in  this  country.  I  would  unload  it  on 
some  tenderfoot." 

"Then  you  would  return  to  the  East,  I  suppose," 
I  remarked. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  the  granger  with  an 
air  of  intense  disgust.  I  like  Southern*  California 
too  well  for  my  own  good.  She  is  a  tricky  damsel, 
first-rate  to  flirt  with,  but  of  no  account  as  a  busi 
ness  partner.  But  I  love  her  in  spite  of  her  tricks, 
and  not  even  the  archangel's  trump  can  ever  raise 
my  bones  from  her  soil." 

Emerging  from  the  canyon  in  which  lay  the 
"ranche"  of  the  bachelor  granger,  our  way  lay  for 


138  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

miles  over  a  dreary  stretch  of  gray  sand,  half  cov 
ered  with  a  thin  and  sorry-looking  gray  brush 
about  knee-high.  Scarcely  a  lobe  even  of  cactus  re 
lieved  the  monotonous  gray  of  the  sand  and  brush. 
Scarcely  a  sign  of  life  relieved  the  hot  glare  of  the 
vast  expanse  of  desert  save  an  occasional  hare  sit 
ting  in  the  exasperating  shade  of  some  little  IOAV 
bush  just  thick  enough  to  stop  all  the  breeze  and 
just  thin  enough  to  let  through  the  last  beam  of 
the  midday  sun.  Each  hare  looked  weary  and  mad, 
yet  wore  withal  a  look  of  mild  resignation  akin  to 
that  of  the  granger  we  had  just  left.  Nowhere 
within  sight  was  there  for  him  any  means  of  sup 
port,  and  yet  it  was  evident  that,  like  the  granger, 
he  did  not  wish  to  leave  the  country.  It  was  from 
these  two  fixtures  that  I  had  my  first  conception 
of  living  on  climate. 

The  man  who  for  an  instant  would  have  dreamed 
of  anyone  living  on  this  desert  would  have  been 
deemed  insane,  and  at  that  time  probably  would 
have  been  so.  I  could  have  bought  thousands  of 
acres  of  it  for  a  song,  but  neither  my  companion 
nor  I  would  have  paid  the  land  office  fees  to  pre 
empt  the  whole  of  it.  And  the  oldest  residents  of 
the  whole  country  Avere  the  most  pronounced  of  all 
in  their  opinion  that  it  was  utterly  worthless  for 
any  purpose  and  for  all  time. 

Many  a  reader  will  take  most  of  the  ab"ove  for  a 
very  weak  attempt  to  be  funny.  But  it  is  written 
in  sober  earnest,  and  does  not  describe  one-half  of 
the  difficulties  that  then  beset  every  man  who  de 
parted  from  raising  livestock  and  tried  to  coax  a 
dollar  or  even  worry  a  living  out  of  the  soil;  ex 
cept  in  a  few  places  around  Los  Angeles,  where 


The  Lure  of  the  Trail  139 

some  money  was  made  by  sending  a  few  oranges  to 
the  limited  market  of  San  Francisco.  So  universal 
were  the  troubles  of  the  common  farmer  and  fruit 
grower  that  most  of  them  were  chronic  grumblers, 
taking  a  positive  satisfaction  in  relating  their  ex 
perience.  Everywhere  one  could  hear  people  tell 
more  harrowing  tales  than  the  one  above ;  and  they 
would  tell  it  with  genuine  gusto,  and  apparently 
with  more  satisfaction  before  a  stranger  than  when 
alone.  Many  an  hour's  amusement  the  writer  has 
had  from  sea  coast  to  mountain  top,  drawing  out 
the  unfortunate  by  questions  which  he  soon  learned 
to  frame.  Yet  with  all  their  troubles  they  were  all 
like  the  bachelor  granger  and  the  hare.  They  were 
all  mad  and  sad,  but  none  of  them  wanted  to  leave 
the  country.  Although  nearly  every  place  in  the 
land  was  for  sale,  it  was  not  to  get  money  with 
which  to  leave  the  country,  but  to  repeat  the  same 
folly  somewhere  on  another  place  that  seemed  to 
have  better  conditions. 

As  long  as  production  was  subject  to  so  many 
drawbacks  there  was  no  prospect  of  a  boom,  and 
nobody  thought  of  any.  But  in  the  next  ten  years 
the  land  underwent  a  change  which  was  probably 
the  most  rapid  and  radical  that  the  world  has  ever 
seen. — From  * '  Millionaires  of  a  Day. ' ' 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  TRAIL 

BY  STEWART  EDWABD  WHITE 

THE  trail's  call  depends  not  at  all  on  your  com 
mon  sense.     You  know  you  are  a  fool  for 
answering  it;  and  yet  you  go.     The  comforts  of 


14:0  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

civilization,  to  put  the  case  on  its  lowest  plane,  are 
not  lightly  to  be  renounced;  the  ease  of  having 
your  physical  labor  done  for  you ;  the  joy  of  culti 
vated  minds,  of  theaters,  of  books,  of  participation 
in  the  world's  progress ;  these  you  leave  behind  you. 
And  in  exchange  you  enter  a  life  where  there  is 
much  long,  hard  work  of  the  hands — work  that  is 
really  hard  and  long,  so  that  no  man  paid  to  labor 
would  consider  it  for  a  moment;  you  undertake  to 
eat  simply,  to  endure  much,  to  lie  on  the  rack  of 
anxiety ;  you  voluntarily  place  yourself  where  cold, 
wet,  hunger,  thirst,  heat,  monotony,  danger  and 
many  discomforts  will  wait  upon  you  daily.  A 
thousand  times  in  the  course  of  a  woods  life  even 
the  stoutest  hearted  will  tell  himself  softly — very 
softly — if  he  is  really  stout-hearted,  so  that  others 
may  not  be  annoyed — that  if  ever  the  fates  permit 
him  to  extricate  himself  he  will  never  venture 
again. 

These  times  come  when  long  continuance  has 
worn  on  the  spirit.  You  beat  all  day  to  windward 
against  the  tide  toward  what  should  be  but  an 
hour's  sail;  the  sea  is  high  and  the  spray  cold; 
there  are  sunken  rocks,  and  food  there  is  none; 
chill,  gray  evening  draws  dangerously  near,  and 
there  is  a  foot  of  water  in  the  bilge.  You  have 
swallowed  your  tongue  twenty  times  on  the  alkali ; 
and  the  sun  is  melting  hot,  and  the  dust  dry  and 
pervasive ;  and  there  is  no  water,  and  for  all  your 
effort  the  relative  distances  seem  to  remain  the 
same  for  days. 

You  have  carried  a  pack  until  your  every  muscle 
is  strung  white-hot;  the  woods  are  breathless;  the 
black  flies  swarm  persistently  and  bite  until  your 


The  Lure  of  the  Trail  Ul 

face  is  covered  with  blood.  You  have  struggled 
through  clogging  snow  until  each  time  you  raise 
your  snowshoe  you  feel  as  though  some  one  had 
stabbed  a  little  sharp  knife  into  your  groin;  it  has 
come  to  be  night;  the  mercury  is  away  below  zero, 
and  with  aching  fingers  you  are  to  prepare  a  camp 
which  is  only  an  anticipation  of  many  more  such 
camps  in  the  ensuing  days.  For  a  week  it  has 
rained,  so  that  you,  pushing  through  the  dripping- 
brush,  are  soaked  and  sodden  and  comfortless,  and 
the  bushes  have  become  horrible  to  your  shrinking 
goose-flesh.  Or  you  are  just  plain  tired  out,  not 
from  a  single  day's  fatigue,  but  from  the  gradual 
exhaustion  of  a  long  hike.  Then  in  your  secret 
soul  you  utter  these  sentiments : 

"You  are  a  fool.  This  is  not  fun.  There  is  no 
real  reason  why  you  should  do  this.  If  you  ever 
get  out  of  here  you  will  stick  right  home  where 
common  sense  flourishes,  my  son ! ' ' 

Then  after  a  time  you  do  get  out,  and  are  thank 
ful.  But  in  three  months  you  will  have  proved  in 
your  own  experience  the  following  axiom — I  should 
call  it  the  widest  truth  the  wilderness  has  to  teach : 
."In  memory  the  pleasures  of  a  camping  trip 
strengthen  with  time,  and  the  disagreeables 
weaken. '  ' 

I  don't  care  how  hard  an  experience  you  have 
had,  nor  how  little  of  the  pleasant  has  been  min 
gled  with  it,  in  three  months  your  general  impres 
sion  of  that  trip  will  be  good.  You  will  look  Hack 
on  the  hard  times  with  a  certain  fondness  of  recol 
lection. 

I  remember  one  trip  I  took  in  the  early  spring 
following  a  long  drive  on  the  Pine  River.  It  rained 


142  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

steadily  for  six  days.  We  were  soaked  to  the  skin 
all  the  time,  ate  standing  up  in  the  driving  down 
pour,  and  slept  wet.  So  cold  was  it  that  each 
morning  our  blankets  were  so  full  of  frost  that 
they  crackled  stiffly  when  we  turned  out.  Dis 
passionately  I  can  appraise  that  as  about  the  worst 
I  ever  got  into.  Yet  as  an  impression  the  Pine 
River  trip  seems  to  me  a  most  enjoyable  one. 

So  after  you  have  been  home  for  a  little  while 
the  call  begins  to  make  itself  heard.  At  first  it  is 
very  gentle.  But  little  by  little  a  restlessness  seizes 
hold  of  you.  You  do  not  know  exactly  what  is  the 
matter ;  you  are  aware  merely  that  your  customary 
life  has  lost  savor,  that  you  are  doing  things  more 
or  less  perfunctorily,  and  that  you  are  a  little  more 
irritable  than  your  naturally  evil  disposition. 

And  gradually  it  is  borne  in  on  you  exactly  what 
is  the  matter.  Then  say  you  to  yourself : 

"My  son,  you  know  better.  You  are  no  tender 
foot.  You  have  had  too  long  an  experience  to  ad 
mit  of  any  glamour  of  indefiniteness  about  this 
thing.  No  use  bluffing.  You  know  exactly  how 
hard  you  will  have  to  work,  and  how  much  tribu 
lation  you  are  going  to  get  into,  and  how  hungry 
and  \vet  and  cold  and  tired  and  generally  frazzled 
out  you  are  going  to  be.  You've  been  there  enough 
times,  so  it 's  pretty  clearly  impressed  on  you.  You 
go  into  this  thing  with  your  eyes  open.  You  know 
what  you're  in  for.  You're  pretty  well  off  right 
here,  and  you'd  be  a  fool  to  go." 

"That's  right,"  says  yourself  to  you.  "You're 
dead  right  about  it,  old  man.  Do  you  know  where 
we  can  get  another  mule-pack?" — From  "The 
Mountains. ' ' 


Ben  Franklin  143 

BEN  FBANKLIN 

BY  JAMES  C.  ADAMS 

IT  is  with  pleasure  that  I  dwell  upon  this  part  of 
my  story,  and  I  would  fain  distinguish  it  with 
living  words.  In  all  the  after-course  of  niy  career, 
I  could  look  back  upon  it  with  peculiar  satisfac 
tion  ;  and  rarely,  in  the  following  years,  did  I  pat 
the  shaggy  coat  of  my  noble  Ben  but  I  recurred  to 
my  fatiguing  and  solitary  vigils  in  the  Mariposa 
canon,  my  combat  with  the  monster  grizzly,  my 
entry  in  her  den,  and  seizure  of  her  offspring.  The 
whole  adventure  is  impressed  upon  my  memory  as 
if  it  had  occurred  but  yesterday. 

No  sooner  was  the  dam  dead  than  I  turned  to 
wards  the  den.  and  determined  to  enter  it  without 
delay.  Approaching  its  mouth,  accordingly,  I 
knelt,  and  tried  to  peer  in ;  but  all  was  dark,  silent 
and  ominous.  AYhat  dangers  might  lurk  in  that 
mysterious  gloom  it  was  impossible  to  tell;  nor 
was  it  without  a  tremor  that  I  prepared  to  explore 
its  depths.  I  trembled  for  a  moment  at  the  thought 
of  another  old  bear  in  the  den:  but  on  second 
thought  I  assured  myself  of  the  folly  of  such  an 
idea ;  for  an  occurrence  of  this  kind  would  have 
been  against  all  experience.  But  in  such  a  situa 
tion  a  man  imagines  many  things,  and  fears  much 
at  which  he  afterward  laughs;  and  therefore, 
though  there  was  really  no  difficulty  to  anticipate. 
I  carefully  loaded  my  rifle  and  pistol,  and  carried 
my  arms  as  if  the  next  instant  I  was  to  be  called 
upon  to  fight  for  life.  Being  thus  prepared,  I  took 
from  my  pocket  a  small  torch  made  of  pine  splin- 


144  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

ters,  lighted  it,  and  placing  my  rifle  in  the  mouth 
of  the  den,  with  the  torch  in  my  left  and  the  pistol 
in  my  right  hand,  I  dropped  upon  my  knees  and 
began  to  crawl  in. 

The  entrance  consisted  of  a  rough  hole,  three 
feet  wide  and  four  feet  high.  It  extended  inward 
nearly  horizontally,  and  almost  without  a  turn,  for 
six  feet,  where  there  was  a  chamber  six  or  eight 
feet  in  diameter  and  five  feet  high,  giving  me  room 
to  rise  upon  my  knees,  but  not  to  stand  up — and  its 
entire  floor  was  thickly  carpeted  with  leaves  and 
grass.  On  the  first  look,  I  could  see  no  animals, 
and  felt  grievously  disappointed ;  but,  as  I  crawled 
around,  there  was  a  rustling  in  the  leaves;  and, 
bending  down  with  my  torch,  I  discovered  two 
beautiful  little  cubs,  which  could  not  have  been 
over  a  week  old,  as  their  eyes,  which  open  in  eight 
or  ten  days,  were  still  closed.  I  took  the  little 
sprawlers,  one  after  the  other,  by  the  nape  of  the 
neck,  lifted  them  up  to  the  light  and  found 
them  very  lively.  They  were  both  males;  a  cir 
cumstance  which  gave  me  reason  to  presume  there 
might  be  a  third  cub,  for  it  is  frequent  that  a  litter 
consists  of  three,  and  I  looked  carefully;  but  no 
other  was  to  be  found.  I  concluded,  therefore,  that 
if  there  had  been  a  third,  the  dam  had  devoured  it 
— a  thing  she  often,  and,  if  a  cub  dies,  or  be  de 
formed,  always  does.  Satisfying  myself  that 
there  were  no  others,  I  took  the  two,  and,  placing 
them  in  my  bosom,  between  my  buckskin  and 
woolen  shirt,  once  more  emerged  into  daylight. 

The  possession  of  the  prizes  delighted  me  so 
much  that  I  almost  danced  my  way  down  through 
the  bushes  and  over  the  uneven  ground  to  the  spot 


Ben  Franklin  145 

where  my  mule  had  been  left;  but,  upon  arriving 
there,  it  gave  me  great  concern  to  find  that  she 
was  gone.  At  first,  I  thought  surely  she  had  been 
stolen;  but,  as  my  bag  of  dried  venison  remained 
undisturbed  upon  the  tree,  and  much  more  as  the 
tracks  of  a  panther  were  to  be  seen  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  I  became  convinced  that  she  had  been  at 
tacked  %  my  disturber  of  the  previous  night  and 
had  broken  away.  Indeed,  upon  further  examina 
tion,  I  found  her  track,  leading  off  through  the 
chaparral ;  and,  following  it  over  a  hill  and  through 
another  canon,  at  length  found  her  grazing  in  a 
grassy  valley.  She  seemed  much  frightened  at 
first  upon  seeing  me,  but  when  I  called  her  "Betz," 
she  stopped,  turned  around,  looked,  and  then  came 
up,  apparently  glad  to  meet  me  again.  Her 
haunches  bore  several  deep  and  fresh  scratches, 
which  were  still  more  convincing  evidences  to  my 
mind  that  the  panther  had  sprung  upon  her,  but 
that  she  had  broken  loose  and  escaped. 

Mounting  the  mule,  I  returned  to  the  dead  bear, 
and,  cutting  her  up,  packed  a  portion  of  her  meat ; 
the  remainder  I  left  in  the  mouth  of  the  den;  and, 
turning  my  face  out  of  the  ravine,  I  proceeded  in 
excellent  spirits,  bearing  the  cubs  still  in  my  bosom, 
toward  the  camp  of  my  companions.  Upon  reach 
ing  there,  shortly  after  dark,  I  showed  Solon  what 
I  had  accomplished;  and,  placing  the  cubs  before 
him,  chose  one  for  my  own  and  presented  him  with 
the  other.  He  thought  that  this  was  more  than  his 
share ;  but  I  insisted  upon  his  receiving  it,  and  h,? 
did  so  with  a  thankful  heart.  He  asked  me  the 
story  of  the  capture,  and  I  told  it,  from  the  mo 
ment  of  my  leaving  camp  to  my  return.  He  won- 


146  Patkivay  to  Western  Literature 

dered  much  at  my  patient  watching  in  the  juniper 
bushes,  and  said  he  would  not  have  done  it,  but 
still  he  wished  he  had  been  with  me — and  thus  we 
went  on  talking,  till  the  dying  embers  admonished 
us  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  Before  retiring, 
Solon  christened  his  cub  General  Jackson;  I  re 
marked  that  General  Jackson  was  a  great  man  in 
his  way,  but  I  Avould.call  my  bear  Ben  Franklin — 
a  greater  name.  Such  was  the  manner  that,  in  one 
and  the  same  day,  I  captured  and  christened  my 
noble  Ben. 

The  condition  of  my  poor  Ben,  as  he  lay  panting 
on  the  sand  of  the  San  Joaquin  plains,  unable  to 
follow  me  any  further,  and  looking  up  affection 
ately,  but  despairingly,  from  the  midst  of  his  pain, 
in  my  face,  grieved  me  to  the  heart,  and  gave  me 
great  uneasiness.  He  was  my  favorite;  I  could 
well  have  spared  any  other  animal  rather  than 
Ben;  and  I  feared  he  would  die.  I  reproached 
myself  for  having  brought  no  water  along,  but  as 
the  fault  could  not  be  helped  by  reproaches,  I 
hastily  split  some  pieces  of  board  from  my  wagon, 
and  erecting  a  frame  and  throwing  a  large  blanket 
over  it,  so  as  to  make  shade,  left  Ben  and  Rambler 
there,  and  then  I  drove  on  with  the  intention  of 
procuring  water  and  returning  more  speedily  than 
Drury,  who  had  no  interests  at  stake,  would  b"e  dis 
posed  to  do.  In  the  course  of  four  or  five  miles  I 
met  Drury  with  his  bag  of  water;  and  hastily 
handing  him  the  reins,  with  directions  to  drive  on, 
I  mounted  the  horse  and  galloped  back  to  where 
Ben  lay  suffering.  It  was  dark  when  I  reached 
him,  and  to  all  appearances  he  had  not  moved  from 


Ben  Franklin  147 

the  position  in  which  I  left  him.  He  had  life 
enough,  however,  to  express  his  gratitude,  and 
drank  several  quarts  of  water  with  avidity.  I 
then  endeavored  to  coax  him  along,  and  he  took  a 
few  steps ;  but  neither  flattery  nor  blows  could  in 
duce  him  to  move  far. 

Seeing  that  it  was  impossible  to  get  him  along, 
I  again  let  him  lie,  and  rode  ahead  for  the  wagon, 
which  I  found  at  the  side  of  a  spring.  The  mules 
and  horses  were  turned  out  to  graze,  and  Drury 
was  lying  asleep  at  the  fire,  which  he  had  hastily 
kindled.  I  roused  him  and  ordered  him  to  assist 
in  hitching  up  the  wagon  again,  to  go  back  for 
Ben.  He  obeyed,  and  we  soon  unloaded  the  heav 
iest  of  our  articles,  and,  leaving  them  at  the  spring, 
drove  back.  As  the  country,  however,  was  new  to 
us  and  the  night  dark,  we  by  some  means  or  other 
missed  the  way,  and  could  see  no  signs  of  what  we 
sought.  We  looked  about  all  night  till  daylight, 
but  there  was  no  Ben  in  sight.  I  at  last  sent 
Drury  in  one  direction  and  myself  took  another,  by 
which  means  we  succeeded  in  a  few  hours  in  find 
ing  the  trail,  and  finally  discovered  the  bear  lying 
under  his  blanket.  "We  gave  him  water  again,  but 
still  he  could  not  walk,  and  we  had  to  place  him  in 
the  wagon — which  could  not  be  done  without  some 
difficulty,  as  by  that  time  he  would  weigh  in  the 
neighborhood  of  four  hundred  pounds.  AYhen  at 
last  we  did  get  him  in,  partly  by  our  own  strength 
and  partly  by  his  assistance,  we  drove  on  to  the 
spring  and  camped. 

On  account  of  the  bear 's  condition,  we  were  com 
pelled  to  remain  two  days  at  this  spring,  during 
which  time  I  doctored  him.  My  treatment  met 


148  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

with  success,  and  we  soon  got  him  on  his  legs  again. 
In  the  meanwhile,  as  his  feet  continued  sore,  I 
made  moccasins,  as  I  had  done  on  the  Humboldt 
plains,  and  poured  bear's  oil  in  them — which  was 
an  excellent  salve  for  the  blisters.  The  moccasins 
were  bound  tightly  to  the  feet,  and  a  muzzle  was 
put  over  the  nose,  to  prevent  him  from  tearing 
them  off.  They  worked  well  and  on  the  third  day 
after  reaching  the  spring  we  hitched  up  again  and 
drove  on  to  the  edge  of  Tulare  Lake. — From  ''The 
Adventures  of  James  Capen  Adams." 


THE  MABIPOSA  LILY 

BY  INA  COOLBRITH 

INSECT  or  blossom?    Fragile,  fairy  thing, 
1     Poised  upon  slender  tip,  and  quivering 

To  flight !  a  flower  of  the  fields  of  air ; 

A  jeweled  moth ;  a  butterfly,  with  rare 
And  tender  tints  upon  his  downy  wing 

A  moment  resting  in  our  happy  sight ; 

A  flower  held  captive  by  a  thread  so  slight 
Its  petal-wings  of  broidered  gossamer 
Are  light  as  the  wind,  with  every  wind  astir, 

Wafting  sweet  odor,  faint  and  exquisite, 
O  dainty  nursling  of  the  field  and  sky, 

What  fairer  thing  looks  up  to  heaven's  blue 

And  drinks  the  noontide  sun,  the  dawning 's 

dew? 
Thou  winged  bloom!   thou  blossom — butterfly! 

—From  " Songs  From  the  Golden  Gate." 


Thirst  of  the  Donner  Party  149 

THIRST  OF  THE  DONNEE  PAETY 

BY  C.  T.  MCGLASHAN 

O^  the  sixth  day  of  September  they  reached  a 
meadow  in  a  valley  called  " Twenty  Wells," 
as  there  were  that  number  of  wells  of  various  sizes, 
from  six  inches  to  several  feet  in  diameter.  The 
water  in  these  wells  rose  even  with  the  surface  of 
the  ground,  and  when  it  was  drawn  out  the  wells 
soon  refilled.  The  water  was  cold  and  pure,  and 
peculiarly  welcome  after  the  saline  plains  and 
alkaline  pools  they  had  just  passed.  Wells  similar 
to  these  were  found  during  the  entire  journey  of 
the  following  day,  and  the  country  through  which 
they  were  passing  abounded  in  luxuriant  grass. 
Reaching  the  confines  of  the  Salt  Lake  Desert, 
which  lies  southwest  of  the  lake,  they  laid  in,  as 
they  supposed,  an  ample  supply  of  water  and 
grass.  This  desert  has  been  represented  by  Bridger 
and  Vasquez  as  being  only  about  fifty  miles  wide. 
Instead,  for  a  distance  of  seventy-five  miles  there 
was  neither  water  nor  grass,  but  everywhere  a 
dreary,  desolate,  alkaline  waste.  Verily,  it  was 

"A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides; 
Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount 
Appears  to  refresh  the  aching  eye, 
But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon  round  and  round 
Spread,  void  of  living  sight  or  sound." 

When  the  company  had  been  on  the  desert  two 
nights  and  one  day,  Mr.  Reed  volunteered  to  go  f or- 
11 


150  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

ward,  and,  if  possible,  to  discover  water.  His  hired 
teamsters  were  attending  to  his  teams  and  wagons 
during  his  absence.  At  a  distance  of  perhaps 
twenty  miles  he  found  the  desired  water,  and 
hastened  to  return  to  the  train.  Meantime  there 
was  intense  suffering  in  the  party.  Cattle  were 
giving  out  and  lying  down  helplessly  on  the  burn 
ing  sand,  or,  frenzied  with  thirst,  were  straying 
away  into  the  desert.  Having  made  preparations 
for  only  fifty  miles  of  desert,  several  persons  came 
near  perishing  of  thirst,  and  cattle  were  utterly 
powerless  to  draw  the  heavy  wagons.  Reed  was 
gone  some  twenty  hours.  During  this  time  his 
teamsters  had  done  the  wisest  thing  possible,  un 
hitched  the  oxen  and  started  to  drive  them  ahead 
until  water  was  reached.  It  was  their  intention, 
of  course,  to  return  and  get  the  three  wagons  and 
the  family,  which  they  had  necessarily  abandoned 
on  the  desert.  Reed  passed  his  teamsters  during 
the  night,  and  hastened  to  the  relief  of  his  deserted 
family.  One  of  his  teamster's  horses  gave  out  be 
fore  morning  and  lay  down,  and  while  the  man's 
companions  were  attempting  to  raise  him,  the  oxen, 
rendered  unmanageable  by  their  great  thirst,  dis 
appeared  in  the  desert.  There  were  eighteen  of 
these  oxen.  It  is  probable  they  scented  water,  and 
with  the  instincts  of  their  nature  started  out  to 
search  for  it.  They  never  were  found,  and  Reed 
and  his  family,  consisting  of  nine  persons,  were 
left  destitute  in  the  midst  of  the  desert,  eight  hun 
dred  miles  from  California.  Near  morning,  en 
tirely  ignorant  of  the  calamity  which  had  befallen 
him  in  the  loss  of  his  cattle,  he  reached  his  family. 
All  day  long  they  looked  and  waited  in  vain  for 


Thirst  of  the  Donner  Party  151 

the  returning  teamsters.  All  the  rest  of  the  com 
pany  had  driven  ahead,  and  the  majority  had 
reached  water.  Toward  night  the  situation  grew 
desperate.  The  scanty  supply  of  water  left  with 
the  family  was  almost  gone,  and  another  day  on 
the  desert  would  mean  death  to  all  he  held  dear. 
Their  only  way  left  was  to  set  out  on  foot.  He 
took  his  youngest  child  in  his  arms,  and  the  family 
started  to  walk  the  twenty  miles.  During  this 
dreadful  night  some  of  the  younger  children  be 
came  so  exhausted  that,  regardless  of  scoldings  or 
encouragements,  they  lay  down  on  the  bleak  sands. 
Even  rest,  however,  seemed  denied  the  little  suf 
ferers,  for  a  chilling  wind  began  sweeping  over  the 
desert,  and  despite  their  weariness  and  anguish, 
they  were  forced  to  move  forward.  At  one  time 
during  the  night  the  horror  of  the  situation  was 
changed  to  intense  fright.  Through  the  darkness 
came  a  swift-rushing  animal,  which  Reed  soon  rec 
ognized  as  one  of  his  young  steers.  It  was  crazed 
and  frenzied  with  thirst,  and  for  some  moments 
seemed  bent  upon  dashing  into  the  frightened 
group.  Finally,  however,  it  plunged  madly  away 
into  the  night,  and  was  seen  no  more.  Reed  sus 
pected  the  calamity  which  had  prevented  the  return 
of  the  teamsters,  but  at  that  moment,  the  immi 
nent  peril  surrounding  his  wife  and  children  ban 
ished  all  thoughts  of  worrying  about  anything  but 
their  present  situation.  God  knows  what  would 
have  become  of  them  if  they  had  not,  soon  after 
daylight,  discovered  the  wagon  of  Jacob  Donner. 
They  were  received  kindly  by  his  family,  and  con 
veyed  to  where  the  other  members  of  the  party 
were  camped.  For  six  or  eight  days  the  entire 


152  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

company  remained  at  this  spot.  Every  effort  was 
made  to  find  Reed 's  lost  cattle.  Almost  every  man 
ing  this  search.  The  desert  mirage  disclosed  againstt; 
directions.  This  task  was  attended  with  both  diffi 
culty  and  danger;  for  when  the  sun  shone,  the 
atmosphere  appeared  to  distort  and  magnify  ob 
jects  so  that  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  every  stone 
or  bush  would  appear  the  size  of  an  ox.  Several 
of  the  men  came  near  dying  for  want  of  water  dur 
ing  this  search.  The  desert  mirage  disclosed  against 
the  horizon,  clear,  distinct  and  perfectly  outlined 
rocks,  mountain  peaks  and  tempting  lakelets.  Each 
jagged  cliff,  or  pointed  rock,  or  sharply-curved  hill 
top,  hung  suspended  in  air  as  perfect  and  complete 
as  if  photographed  on  the  sky.  Deceived,  deluded 
by  these  mirages,  in  spite  of  their  better  judgment, 
several  members  of  the  company  were  led  far  out 
into  the  pathless  depths  of  the  desert. 

The  outlook  for  Reed  was  gloomy  enough.  One 
cow  and  one  ox  were  the  only  stock  he  had  remain 
ing.  The  company  were  getting  exceedingly  im 
patient  over  the  long  delay,  yet  be  it  said  to  their 
honor,  they  encamped  on  the  western  verge  of  the 
desert  until  every  hope  of  finding  Reed 's  cattle  was 
abandoned.  Finally,  F.  W.  Graves  and  Patrick 
Breen  each  lent  an  ox  to  Mr.  Reed,  and  by  yoking 
up  his  remaining  cow  and  ox,  he  had  two  yoke  of 
cattle.  1 '  Cacheing, ' '  or  concealing  such  of  his 
property  on  the  desert,  as  could  not  be  placed  in 
one  wagon,  he  hitched  the  two  yoke  of  cattle  to  this 
wagon  and  proceeded  on  the  journey. — From  "  His 
tory  of  the  Donner  Party. " 


Starvation  of  the  Donner  Party          153 
STARVATION  OF  THE  DONNER  PARTY 

BY  C.  T.  MCGLASHAN 

IN  the  very  complete  account  of  this  trip,  which 
is  kindly  furnished  by  Mary  Graves,  are  many 
interesting  particulars  concerning  the  suffering  of 
these  days.  "Our  only  chance  for  camp-fire  for 
the  night,"  she  says,  "was  to  hunt  a  dead  tree  of 
some  description,  and  set  fire  to  it.  The  hemlock 
being  the  best  and  generally  much  the  largest  tim 
ber,  it  was  our  custom  to  select  the  driest  we  could 
find  without  leaving  our  course.  When  the  fire 
would  reach  the  top  of  the  tree,  the  falling  limbs 
would  fall  around  us  and  bury  themselves  in  the 
snow,  but  we  heeded  them  not.  Sometimes  the 
falling,  blazing  limbs  would  brush  our  clothes,  but 
they  never  hit  us ;  that  would  have  been  too  lucky  a 
hit.  We  would  sit  or  lie  on  the  snow,  and  rest  our 
weary  frames.  We  would  sleep,  only  to  dream  of 
something  nice  to  eat,  and  awake  again  to  disap 
pointment.  Such  was  our  sad  fate!  Even  the 
reindeer's  wretched  lot  was  not  worse!  'His  din 
ner  and  his  bed  were  snow,  and  supper  he  had 
not.  *  Our  fare  was  the  same !  We  would  strike 
fire  by  means  of  the  flint-lock  gun  which  we  had 
with  us.  This  had  to  be  carried  by  turns,  as  it 
was  considered  the  only  hope  left  us  in  case  we 
might  find  game  which  we  could  kill.  We  traveled 
over  a  ridge  of  mountains,  and  then  descended  a 
deep  canon,  where  one  could  scarcely  see  the  bot 
tom.  Down,  down  we  would  go,  or  rather  slide, 
for  it  is  very  slavish  work  going  down  hill,  and  in 
many  cases  we  were  compelled  to  slide  on  our  shoes 


154  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

as  sleds.  On  reaching  the  bottom  we  would  plunge 
into  the  snow,  so  that  it  was  difficult  getting  out, 
with  the  shoes  tied  to  our  feet,  our  packs  lashed  to 
our  backs,  and  ourselves  head  and  ears  under  the 
snow.  But  we  managed  to  get  out  some  way,  and 
one  by  one  reached  the  bottom  of  the  canon.  When 
this  was  accomplished  we  had  to  ascend  a  hill  as 
steep  as  the  one  we  had  descended.  We  would 
drive  the  toes  of  our  shoes  into  the  loose  snow,  to 
make  a  sort  of  step,  and  one  by  one,  as  if  ascending 
stair-steps,  we  climbed  up.  It  took  us  an  entire 
day  to  reach  the  top  of  the  mountain.  Each  time 
we  attained  the  summit  of  a  mountain,  we  hoped 
we  should  be  able  to  see  something  like  a  valley, 
but  each  time  came  disappointment,  for  far  ahead 
was  always  another  and  higher  mountain.  We 
found  some  springs,  or,  as  we  called  them,  wells, 
from  five  to  twenty  feet  under  ground,  as  you 
might  say,  for  they  were  under  the  snow  on  which 
we  walked.  The  water  was  so  warm  that  it  melted 
the  snow,  and  from  some  of  these  springs  were 
large  streams  of  running  water.  We  crossed  num 
bers  of  these  streams  on  bridges  of  snow,  which 
would  sometimes  form  upon  a  blade  of  grass  hang 
ing  over  the  water ;  and  from  as  small  a  foundation 
would  grow  a  bridge  from  ten  to  twenty-five  feet 
high,  and  from  a  foot  and  a  half  to  three  feet 
across  the  top.  It  would  make  you  dizzy  to  look 
down  at  the  water  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty 
we  could  place  our  clumsy  ox-bow  snow-shoes  one 
ahead  of  the  other  without  falling.  Our  feet  had 
been  frozen  and  thawed  so  many  times  that  they 
were  bleeding  and  sore.  When  we  stopped  at 
night  we  would  take  off  our  shoes,  which  by  this 


Starvation  of  the  Donner  Party  155 

time  were  so  badly  rotted  Hy  constant  wetting  in 
snow,  that  there  was  very  little  left  of  them.  In 
the  morning  we  would  push  our  shoes  on,  bruising 
and  numbing  the  feet  so  badly  that  they  would 
ache  and  ache  with  walking  and  the  cold,  until 
night  would  come  again.  Oh !  the  pain !  it  seemed 
to  make  the  pangs  of  hunger  more  excruciating." 

Thus  the  party  traveled  on  day  after  day,  until 
absolute  starvation  again  stared  them  in  the  face. 
The  snow  had  gradually  grown  less  deep,  until  it 
finally  disappeared  or  lay  only  in  patches.  Their 
strength  was  well-nigh  exhausted,  when  one  day 
Mary  Graves  says:  "Some  one  called  out,  'Here 
are  tracks!'  Some  one  asked,  'What  kind  of 
tracks — human?"  'Yes,  human!'  Can  anyone 
imagine  the  joy  these  footprints  gave  us?  We  ran 
as  fast  as  our  strength  would  carry  us. ' ' 

Turning  a  chaparral  point,  they  came  in  full  view 
of  an  Indian  rancheria.  The  uncivilized  savages 
were  amazed.  Never  had  they  seen  such  forlorn, 
wretched,  pitiable  human  beings  as  the  tattered, 
disheveled,  skeleton  creatures  who  stood  stretching 
out  their  arms  for  assistance.  At  first  they  all 
ran  and  hid,  but  soon  they  returned  to  the  aid  of 
these  dying  wretches.  It  is  said  that  the  Indian 
women  and  children  cried,  and  wailed  with  grief 
at  the  affecting  spectacle  of  starved  men  and  wo 
men.  Such  food  as  they  had  was  speedily  offered. 
It  was  tiread  made  of  acorns.  This  was  eagerly 
eaten.  It  was  at  least  a  substitute  for  food.  Every 
person  in  the  rancheria,  from  the  toddling  papooses 
to  the  aged  chief,  endeavored  to  aid  them. 

After  what  had  recently  happened,  could  any- 


156  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

thing  be  more  touching  than  these  acts  of  kind 
ness  of  the  Indians  ? 

After  briefly  resting,  they  pressed  forward.  The 
Indians  accompanied  them  and  even  led  them,  and 
constantly  supplied  them  with  food.  With  food? 
No,  it  was  not  such  food  as  their  weakened,  debili 
tated  systems  craved.  The  acorn  bread  was  not 
sufficient  to  sustain  lives  already  so  attenuated  by 
repeated  starvations.  All  that  the  starved  experi 
ence  in  the  way  of  pain  and  torture  before  they 
die  had  been  experienced  by  these  people  at  least 
four  different  times.  To  their  horror,  they  now  dis 
covered  that  despite  the  acorn  bread  they  must  die 
of  hunger  and  exhaustion  a  fifth  and  last  time.  So 
sick  and  weak  did  they  become  that  they  were 
compelled  to  lie  down  and  rest  every  hundred 
yards.  Finally,  after  being  with  the  Indians  seven 
days,  they  lay  down,  and  felt  that  they  never 
should  have  strength  to  take  another  step.  Before 
them,  in  all  its  beauty  and  loveliness,  spread  the 
broad  valley  of  the  Sacramento.  Behind  them  were 
the  ever-pleading  faces  of  their  starving  dear  ones. 
Yet  neither  hope  nor  affection  could  give  them 
further  strength.  They  were  dying  in  full  vie\v 
of  the  long-desired  haven  of  re  ^.t. — From  ' '  The  His 
tory  of  the  Donner  Party/' 


A  Song  of  Autumn  157 

A  SONG  OF  AUTUMN 

BY  HENRY  MEADE  BLAXD 

"T'lS  old  autumn,  the  musician, 
A      Who,  with  pipe  and  tabor,  weaves 

The  sweet  music  lovers  sigh  for 
In  the  falling  of  the  leaves. 

I  have  heard  his  distant  anthem 

Go  a-sighing  through  the  trees 
Tjike  the  far-off  shouts  of  children, 

Or  the  hum  of  swarming  bees. 

When  he  plays  the  leaflets  flutter 
On  the  boughs  that  hold  them  fast; 

Or  they  scurry  through  the  forest 
Or  they  spin  before  the  blast. 

And  they  frolic  and  they  gambol. 
And  they  cling  to  autumn's  gown 

As  the  children  to  the  Piper's 
In  the  famous  Hamelin  Town. 


Then  they  rustle  and  they  hurry 

To  a  canyon  dark  and  deep ; 
And  the  Piper,  dear  old  autumn, 

Pipes  till  he  is  fast  asleep. 

— From  "  Poems. 


« • 


158  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

SAN  GABRIEL  VALLEY 

BY  THEODORE  VAN  DYKE 

BUT  to  see  at  its  best  the  loveliest  part  of  South 
ern  California,  as  improved,  one  must  descend 
into  its  great  valley  of  San  Gabriel.  The  Sierra 
Madre  Mountains  that  form  its  northern  wall  rise 
with  a  sudden  sweep  much  higher  above  the  valley 
than  most  of  the  great  mountains  of  our  country 
rise  above  the  land  at  their  feet,  lifting  one  at  once 
into  a  different  climate  and  to  a  country  where 
primeval  wildness  still  reigns  supreme.  Few  parts 
of  the  United  States  are  less  known  and  less  trav 
ersed  than  these  great  hills;  yet  they  look  down 
upon  the  very  garden  of  all  California.  Away  up 
there  the  mountain  trout  flashes  undisturbed  in  the 
hissing  brook,  and  the  call  of  the  mountain  quail 
rings  from  the  shady  glen  where  the  grizzly  bear 
yet  dozes  away  the  day,  secure  as  in  the  olden  time. 
From  the  bristling  points  where  the  lilac  and  man- 
zanita  light  up  the  dark  hue  of  the  surrounding 
chaparral  the  deer  yet  looks  down  upon  the  plain 
from  which  the  antelope  has  long  since  been  driven ; 
while  on  the  lofty  ridges  that  lie  in  such  clear  out 
line  against  the  distant  sky  the  mountain  sheep 
still  lingers,  safe  in  its  inaccessible  home. 

But  a  few  years  ago  this  valley  of  San  Gabriel 
was  a  long  open  stretch  of  wavy  slopes  and  low 
rolling  hills,  in  winter  robed  in  velvety  green  and 
spangled  with  myriads  of  flowers  all  strange  to 
Eastern  eyes,  in  summer  brown  with  sun-dried 
grass,  or  silvery  gray  where  light  rippled  over  the 
wild  oats.  Here  and  there  stood  groves  of  huge 


San  Gabriel  Valley  159 

live  oaks,  beneath  whose  broad  time-bowed  heads 
thousands  of  cattle  stamped  away  the  noons  of 
summer.  Around  the  old  mission,  whose  bells  have 
rung  over  the  valley  for  a  century,  a  few  houses 
were  grouped;  but  beyond  this  there  was  scarcely 
a  sign  of  man's  work  except  the  far-off  speck  of  a 
herdsman  looming  in  the  mirage,  or  the  white  walls 
of  the  old  Spanish  ranch  house  glimmering  afar 
through  the  hazy  sunshine  in  which  the  silent  land 
lay  always  sleeping. 

The  old  bells  of  the  mission  still  clang  in  brazen 
discord  as  before,  and  the  midnight  yelp  of  the 
coyote  may  yet  be  heard  as  he  comes  in  from  the 
outlying  hills  to  inspect  the  new  breeds  of  chickens 
that  civilization  has  brought  in;  a  few  scattered 
live  oaks  still  nod  to  each  other  in  memory  of  the 
past,  and  along  the  low  hills  far  off  in  the  south 
the  light  still  plays  upon  the  waving  wild  oats ;  but 
nearly  all  else  has  changed  as  no  other  part  of  the 
world  has  ever  changed.  Nearly  all  is  now  covered 
with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  vegetation  the  most  di 
verse,  yet  all  of  it  foreign  to  the  soil.  Side  by  side 
are  the  products  of  two  zones,  reaching  the  highest 
stages  of  perfection,  yet  none  of  them  natives  of  this 
coast.  Immense  vineyards  of  the  tenderest  grapes 
of  Southern  Spain,  or  Italy,  yielding  five  or  six 
tons  to  the  acre,  lie  by  the  side  of  fields  of  wheat, 
Avhose  heads  and  berry  far  excel  in  size  and  full 
ness  the  finest  ever  seen  in  the  famed  fields  of  Min 
nesota  or  Dakota.  Here  the  barley  gives  often  a 
return  that  no  northern  land  can  equal,  and  by  its 
side  the  orange  tree  outdoes  its  race  in  the  farthest 
South,  and  keeps  its  fruit  in  perfection  when  those 
of  other  lands  have  failed. 


160  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Gay  cottages  now  line  the  roads  where  the  hare 
so  recently  cantered  along  the  dusty  cattle  trail; 
and  villages  lie  brightly  green  with  a  wealth  of  fol 
iage  where  the  roaring  wings  of  myriads  of  quail 
shook  the  air  above  impenetrable  jungles  of  cactus. 
Houses  furnished  in  all  the  styles  of  modern  deco 
rative  art  rise  in  all  directions,  embowered  in 
roses,  geraniums,  heliotropes  and.  lilies  that  bloom 
the  long  year  'round  and  reach  a  size  that  makes 
them  hard  to  recognize  as  old  friends.  Among 
them  rise  the  Banana,  the  palm,  the  aloe,  the  rubber 
tree,  and  the  pampas  grass  with  its  tall,  feathery 
plumes.  Perhaps  the  camphor  tree  and  a  dozen 
other  foreign  woods  are  scattered  around  them, 
while  the  lawns  shine  with  grasses  unknown  in 
other  parts  of  the  United  States.  The  broad  head 
and  drooping  arms  of  the  Mexican  pepper  tree  fill 
along  the  road  the  sunny  openings  that  the  stately 
shaft  of  the  Australian  eucalyptus  has  failed  to 
shade ;  and  on  every  hand,  instead  of  homely  fences, 
are  hedges  of  Monterey  cypress,  lime,  pomegranate, 
arbor  vitae,  or  acacia.  Here  and  there  one  sees  the 
guava,  the  Japanese  persimmon,  Japanese  plum,  or 
some  similar  exotic,  cultivated,  like  the  olive  and 
quince  and  lemon,  for  pleasure  more  than  profit; 
but  grapes  and  oranges  are  the  principal  products. 
Yet  there  are  groves  of  English  walnuts  almost 
rivaling  in  size  the  great  orange  orchards;  and 
orchards  of  prunes,  nectarines,  apricots,  plums, 
pears,  peaches  and  apples  that  are  little  behind  in 
size  or  productiveness.  The  deep  green  of  the  al 
falfa  may  here  and  there  contrast  with  the  lighter 
green  of  the  grape,  but  vineyards  of  enormous 


The  Poet's  Wealth  161 

size,  some  a  mile  square,  make  all  beside  them  look 
small. — From  ''Southern  California." 


w 


THE  POET'S  WEALTH 

BY  RICHABD  REALF 

HO  says  the  poet's  lot  is  hard? 

"Who  says  it  is  with  misery  rife  ? 
Who  pities  the  deluded  bard 
That  dreams  away  his  life  ? 
Go  thou  and  give  thy  sympathy 

Unto  the  crowd  of  common  men ; 
The  poet  needs  it  not,  for  he 
Hath  joys  beyond  our  ken. 

Yea,  he  hath  many  a  broad  domain 

Which  thou,  0  man,  hath  never  seen. 
"Where  never  comes  the  pelting  rain 

Or  stormy  winter  keen. 
There  ever  balmy  is  the  air, 

And  ever  smiling  are  the  skies, 
For  beauty  ever  blossoms  there — 

Beauty  that  never  dies. 

There  sportive  fancy  loves  to  roam 

And  cull  the  sweets  from  every  flower, 
"While  meditation  builds  her  home 

Beneath  some  forest  bower; 
There,  too,  the  poet  converse  holds 

With  spirits  of  the  long  ago, 
And  dim  futurity  unfolds 

Secrets  for  him  to  know. 


[From  "Poems  by  Richard  Realf."    Copyright  by  Funk  & 
Wagnalls,  New  York  and  London.] 


162  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Then  say  not  that  in  wretchedness 

The  poet  spends  his  weary  days, 
Say  not  that  hunger  and  distress 

Are  guerdon  for  his  lays; 
But  rather  say  that  lack  of  gold 

Unto  the  bard  is  greatest  bliss, 
And  say,  he  is  not  earth-controlled 

Whilst  owning  wealth  like  this. 

— From  "  Poems. '; 


ASCENT  OF  MT.  RAINIER 

BY  ADA  WOODRUFF  AXDERSON 

HP  HE  summer  day  breaks  early  in  the  Puget 
•I  Sound  country.  It  was  not  yet  four  by  Strat- 
ton's  watch  when  he  stepped  from  his  tent  and 
stood  analyzing  the  weather,  but  all  the  sky  over 
head  was  changing  to  yellow,  and  directly,  while 
he  looked,  to  streaks  of  flame.  The  heights,  tower 
ing  a  thousand  feet  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
gorge,  were  burnished  copper,  and  Rainier,  walling 
the  top  of  the  canon,  warmed  to  amethyst  and  rose. 
Its  crest,  at  an  altitude  of  nearly  fifteen  thousand 
feet,  was  hardly  seven  miles  distant. 

But  the  great  forest  that  hemmed  in  the  small 
open  where  the  camp  was  pitched  still  gloomed  in 
shadow,  and  the  air  was  sharp  with  the  near  breath 
of  the  glacier  and  snowfield.  Stratton  saw  that 
Mose  had  left  his  blanket,  gone  already  to  bring 
up  the  horses,  and  the  close  report  of  a  gun  told 
that  Kingsley  was  off  in  search  of  the  early  bird. 
Then  Samantha  came  from  the  other  tent  and  stir- 

[Prom  "The  Heart  of  the  Red  Firs,"  by  Ada  Woodruff 
Anderson.    Copyright,  1908,  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.] 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  163 

red  the  smouldering  fire.  She  added  a  dry  hem 
lock  bough,  watching  the  roused  flames  fasten  on 
the  resinous  wood. 

"Good  morning.  Psyche,"  he  said. 

She  lifted  her  glance,  nodding.  She  had  a  mouth 
like  a  Cupid's  bow  and  the  short  upper  lip 
twitched  with  enforced  gravity  before  the  shaft 
sped.  "Ef  you  hed  er  wife,  I  'low  she'd  get  er 
new  name  'bout  every  day,  an'  mebbe  twicet.  Land, 
it  'ud  keep  her  busy  remernberin '  who  she  was. ' ' 

An  hour  later  the  little  cavalcade  formed  in  line, 
with  Kingsley  leading  on  his  big  white  horse,  fol 
lowed  by  Samantha,  whose  clear  piping  voice  rose 
in  alternate  upbraiding  or  admonition,  for  she  roi? 
the  indifferent  Ginger.  Mose,  mounted  on  Yelm, 
Jim's  piebald  pony,  crowded  the  cayuse  with  the 
two  pack  animals ;  then  came  Louise  and  the  teach 
er,  while  Stratton  closed  the  rear. 

The  trail  became  more  and  more  precipitous, 
switch-backing  across  the  face  of  a  spur,  taking  the 
edge  of  a  cliff,  breaking  into  sharp  pitches  to  a 
rushing  ford.  Trunks,  logs,  netlike  boughs,  shelv 
ing  rock  crowded  close.  The  head  of  the  Nisqually 
and  its  glacier  were  not  far  off.  Then  they  turned 
up  its  beautiful  tributary,  the  Paradise.  Over  the 
stream  Eagle  Peak,  the  first  of  the  Tatoosh  Moun 
tains,  lifted  a  tremendous  front,  and  boulders 
hurled  from  it,  blocked  the  limpid  current,  creat 
ing  innumerable  cascades.  The  air  was  flooded 
with  drifting  spray,  and  the  wet,  luxuriant  earth, 
reflecting  the  sun,  filled  the  gorge  with  playing 
color. 

Then  finally  they  trailed  out  of  the  heavy  timber 
into  the  parks  of  Paradise.  A  succession  of  em- 


164  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

erald  slopes  opened  before  them,  broken  by  clumps 
of  amabilis  fir  and  mountain  hemlock;  where  a 
higher  top  rose  out  of  a  shapely  mass  it  became  a 
cathedral  spire.  Sometimes  the  way  wound  through 
an  area  of  blooming  heliotrope  or  asters;  banks  of 
gorgeous  snapdragon  or  naming  Indian  paintbrush 
gave  color,  like  landscape  gardening,  to  whole  hill 
sides.  Then  behind  them,  pinnacle  on  pinnacle, 
closed  the  Tatoosh  range;  a  last  sharp  ascent  and 
they  were  on  that  small  and  lofty  plateau,  at  an  al 
titude  of  five  thousand  feet,  since  called  The  Camp 
of  Clouds,  with  the  splendor  of  the  great  summit 
almost  overhead. 

The  tents  were  pitched ;  horses  picketed.  It  was 
hardly  mid-afternoon.  "By  this  time  tomorrow," 
said  Kingsley,  "if  this  weather  stays  with  us,  we 
shall  have  made  and  I  hope  passed  Gibraltar.'7 

Stratton,  lounging  on  a  blanket,  looked  up  to  the 
black  cliff,  which,  rising  sheer  fifteen  hundred  feet, 
stood  like  a  mighty  fortress  against  the  whiteness 
of  the  dome.  "I  hope  so,"  he  answered,  "but, 
Captain,  I  never  saw  anything  look  so  tremendous 
ly  like  work." 

Louise  rested  on  a  grassy  knob,  her  hands  clasped 
loosely  on  her  knee,  inspiration  in  her  lifted  face. 
She  hardly  heard  her  husband's  remark,  or  the 
other's  man  reply,  but  Alice  started  from  her  place 
beside  her.  "Phil,"  she  said,  "take  rne  with  you. 
You  can't  understand  what  it  means  to  me,  to  be 
so  near,  to  see  the  summit  shining  there,  and  go  no 
farther.  I'm  very  strong,  Phil,  and  clear-headed. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  things.  I — oh,  you  don't  under 
stand,  but  the  mountains  seem  to  beckon." 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  165 

Kingsley  walked  a  restless  turn.  "I  do  under 
stand,"  he  said.  "I  feel  it  myself.  But  we  don't 
know  what  we  are  going  through,  and  we  can't  be 
sure  of  the  weather  an  hour  ahead;  clouds  are 
manufactured  right  here  at  a  moment's  notice. 
But  wait,  don't  tease,  and  we'll  compromise.  I'm 
going  off  now  to  reconnoiter.  I  believe  the  most 
feasible  start  is  from  that  ridge  across  this  valley 
of  the  Paradise,  but  I  want  to  be  sure.  There'll  be 
no  time  to  waste  in  doubling  back  for  fresh  starts 
to-morrow.  And  Mose  has  been  up  that  way;  he 
says,  with  care  we  can  use  the  horses  as  far  as  the 
old  snow.  A  glacier  cuts  in  there,  probably  the 
source  of  the  Cowlitz,  and  he  thinks  we  should  be 
able  to  reach  it  in  a  couple  of  hours.  I  '11  take  you 
that  far — to  the  glacier." 

At  this  Mose  started  from  his  recumbent  position 
on  the  earth.  He  threw  out  his  arms  in  protest. 
* '  No,  no,  Mees, ' '  he  said,  ' t  It  ees  bes '  you  doan '  go 
dare.  Sacre,  no." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  answered,  smiling,  "and 
if  I'm  a  trouble,  I'll  turn  back.  I  promise." 

"You  doan'  be  some  tro'ble,  Mees,"  he  said, 
quickly.  "No,  no,  it  ees  dat  Tyee  Sahgalee  ees 
goin'  be  mad.  Mebbe  he  ees  mek  dis  mountain 
burn  an'  break  an'  fall  down.  Monjee,  monjee, 
Mees,  you  can't  ride  quick  'nough  away." 

She  laughed,  shaking  her  head.  "I  don't  believe 
that,  Mose,"  she  said,  "and  you  won't,  after  we 
have  been  there.  Tyee  Sahgalee  don't  care  how 
many  of  us  go  creeping  up  there  any  more  than 
we  care  aHout  the  ants  and  spiders  that  crawl  to  the 
cabin  door." 

The  horses  were  brought  and  presently  they  were 
12 


166  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

trailing  up  the  pathless  slopes  in  the  wake  of  the 
piebald  pony;  fording  countless  streams,  leaping 
them,  sinking  in  pitfalls  through  treacherous  banks 
of  bloom.  When,  switch-backing  up  a  loftly  rise, 
Alice  ventured  to  look  down,  all  the  colored  breadth 
of  Paradise  Park  unfolded  like  a  map,  and  the 
dome  gathered  majesty  at  every  turn.  They  gained 
a  shoulder,  rounded  a  curve,  and  before  them 
stretched  the  levels  of  a  plateau  carpeted  with 
snow.  Then,  as  they  moved  across  this  field,  moun 
tain  on  mountain  opened,  shading  to  blue  distance. 
Through  a  gap,  out  of  a  woolly  cloud,  shone  the 
opal  crown  of  Adams,  and  presently,  far  off  St. 
Helens  rose  like  a  floating  berg  on  an  uptossed  sea. 

They  dismounted  at  the  foot  of  a  knob  flanked  by 
loose  rock.  The  red  stain  of  old  snow  was  under 
their  feet,  and  beyond  the  spur  shone  the  clean, 
blue-green  edge  of  the  glacier.  "We  are  higher 
than  the  treeline,  now,"  said  Philip,  "and  above 
the  clouds." 

She  drew  a  breath  of  delight,  lifting  her  glance 
to  the  near  dome.  "And  it  looks  as  though  we 
could  reach  the  summit  in  fifteen  or  twenty  min 
utes.  Oh,  Phil,  come,  let's  go." 

Kingsley  laughed.  "We  haven't  climbed  nine 
thousand  feet;  the  hardest  third  of  the  ascent  is 
above  us.  Don't  you  remember,  the  only  two  men 
who  ever  made  that  summit  were  half  a  day  in  just 
passing  Gibraltar?  We  may  find  it  no  longer  pass 
able." 

While  his  look  rested  on  the  grim  fortress  a  thin 
cloud  rose  like  smoke  from  its  base.  It  covered  the 
cliff  swiftly  and  trailed  across  the  dome.  "Out  of 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  167 

nothing,  without  notice,"  and  he  shook  his  head; 
"that's  what  I 've  heard." 

He  turned.  Stratton  was  busy  searching  for  a 
safe  hitching-place  for  his  horse;  he  never  stood 
well.  But  Mose  had  stepped  nearer  Kingsley.  The 
boy's  shoulders  were  inclined  forward,  and  his 
eyes,  in  that  instant,  were  those  of  a  crouching 
animal  about  to  spring. 

4  *  Well,  Mose,"  he  said  carelessly,  "your  Tyec 
Sahgalee  is  hiding  his  face.  I  suppose  you  think 
we've  come  far  enough.  But  we'll  show  him." 

He  moved  on  with  Alice  up  the  knob,  and  Strat 
ton  joined  them.  But  presently  Mose  stalked  by, 
leading  the  way  to  the  glacier.  His  face  had  the 
gray  look  of  fear,  but  his  lips  were  set  in  the  thin 
line  that  gave  him  an  older,  sinister  touch,  the 
shadow  of  cruelty. 

He  moved  swiftly  and  surely.  He  did  not  once 
look  back.  He  gave  no  direction  or  warning. 
They  followed,  slipping  and  stumbling  through  the 
moraine,  and  gaining  the  ragged  brow  of  the  knob 
found  themselves  suddenly  on  the  brink  of  a  mighty 
precipice.  Far,  far  down,  the  infant  Cowlitz 
sprang  into  life  and  struggled  out  between  stu 
pendous  columns  and  needles.  Locked  in  the  oppo 
site  pinnacled  cliffs  shone  the  sheer,  blue-seamed 
front  of  the  glacier,  and  the  throes  that  gave  the 
river  birth  resounded  through  the  gorge. 

Stratton  uncoiled  the  spare  lariat  he  carried,  and 
taking  an  end,  with  Philip  closing,  and  the  girl  be 
tween,  drew  slowly  along  the  rim.  Mose,  curving 
far  ahead,  came  out  on  the  slippery  incline  of  the 
glacier.  Finally  he  stopped  under  a  great  up 
heaval  of  ice  and,  resting  against  a  block,  waited, 


168  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

with  his  back  turned  to  them  and  his  face  lifted  to 
the  clouding  dome. 

Behind  them  another  cloud  formed  over  the 
Tatoosh  Mountains,  driving  fast  to  meet  the  ad 
vancing  column  from  Gibraltar;  and,  in  a  little 
while,  when  they  had  come  out  on  the  ice  and  made 
slow  headway  up  the  tilting  surface  from  the 
abyss,  mist  lifted  swiftly,  flooding,  giving  immen 
sity  to  the  darkening  gorge.  Kingsley  walked  a 
trifle  in  advance  of  Alice,  with  Stratton  abreast  of 
him.  Suddenly  Mose's  tracks,  on  a  recent  light 
snowfall  which  had  offered  foothold,  swerved,  and 
both  men  stopped.  They  were  on  the  brink  of  a 
narrow,  deep,  incredibly  deep,  crevasse. 

Alice  moved  back,  shivering.  She  looked,  a  mute 
question  trembling  on  her  lips,  at  Mose.  But  he 
continued  to  stand,  oblivious,  with  his  eyes  fixed, 
expectantly,  on  the  clouding  dome. 

"See  here,"  called  Philip,  "see  here;  next  time 
you  let  us  know. ' '  Then  his  glance  returned  to  the 
crevasse.  "Reminds  me  of  a  tremendous  white 
watermelon,"  he  said,  "with  just  one  thin,  clean 
slice  gone." 

1 '  Yes  ? ' '  questioned  Stratton,  smiling.  ' '  It  strikes 
me  differently.  I  thought  right  away  of  some  curi 
ous  metal,  with  just  enough  taken,  by  some  nice 
process,  to  shape  a  gigantic  blade." 

"A  blade,  yes,"  said  Alice,  "for  the  hand  of 
Tyee  Sahgalee." 

Stratton 's  eyes  met  hers  amusedly.  He  won 
dered  if  she  was  capable  of  superstition.  "Even 
then,"  he  said,  "it  is  only  a  surface  impression, 
lost  the  moment  you  look  down.  It's  an  ice-cre 
vasse;  nothing  else."  He  turned  to  Kingsley,  who 


'Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  169 

was  already  studying  the  glacier  ahead.  "Of 
course  this  will  not  delay  us  tomorrow,  Captain, 
but  it  is  time,  now,  to  turn  back." 

"In  a  moment.  There's  a  streak  on  there  that 
bothers  me.  Looks  like  a  more  serious  break.  I 
want  to  see  it  at  closer  range.  Wait  here;  I  won't 
be  fifteen  minutes. ' ' 

He  moved  back  impetuously,  and,  giving  himself 
short  headway,  took  the  crevasse  in  a  leap.  Show 
ers  of  loosened  ice  clinked  down  from  the  rim.  Most 
of  the  particles  struck  the  sides  that  closed  in 
twenty  feet  below,  and  rebounding  dropped  again 
and  sent  back  faint  echoes  from  the  last  level  of  the 
abyss. 

Stratton  stood  watching  Philip  up  the  glacier, 
but  presently  Alice  drew  away  from  the  crevasse 
and  turned  to  look  back  down  the  gorge.  The  sun 
no  longer  shone.  All  that  brilliant  vista  of  opal 
peak  and  amethyst  spur,  shading  to  blue  dis 
tance,  was  curtained  in  closing  sheets  of  mist. 
There  a  great  crag  loomed  an  instant  and  was  gone. 
Here  an  uptossed  pile  of  ice  blocks  flashed  a  sudden 
prismatic  light  and  grew  dim.  Then  they  them 
selves  were  wrapped  in  a  noiseless,  drenching  cloud. 

At  the  same  moment  she  was  startled  by  Strat 
ton 's  brief  note  of  surprise  and  felt  behind  her  a 
sudden  jar.  She  turned.  Mose  was  hurled  sprawl 
ing  at  her  feet,  and,  clutching  her  skirt,  was  up  in 
stantly,  panting,  with  quivering  nostril,  eyes 
ablaze.  Then,  in  the  recoil,  Stratton  reeled  on  the 
brink  of  the  crevasse,  recovered,  stumbled  on  break 
ing  crust,  and  went  down. 

She  stood  for  an  interminable  moment,  waiting, 
listening,  numbed  body  and  mind.  Then  she  was 


170  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

conscious  that  Mose  was  going,  and  she  went  after 
him  a  few  steps,  calling  his  name.  But  his  reced 
ing  shape  drifted  faster  and  faster,  a  fading  shad 
ow  in  the  mist.  She  turned  back,  lifting  her  voice 
in  a  great  cry  to  Philip.  And  she  was  answered 
from  the  ab'yss. 

She  dropped  to  her  knees  and  crept  close  to  look 
down.  Stratton  was  there,  where  the  pale,  green 
walls  narrowed.  He  rested  wedge-like,  caught  at 
the  armpits.  He  looked  up  and  saw  her.  "Be  care 
ful,"  he  said,  "I  am  all  right." 

Instantly  the  executive  in  her  arose.  ' '  I  have  the 
lariat,"  she  said. 

"Fasten  it  to  the  ice  where  Mose  stood,"  he 
called.  "I  can  work  along  that  far." 

He  remembered  that  the  rope  was  new  and 
strong,  one  he  himself  had  selected  as  a  reserve  in 
picketing  his  own  spirited  horse.  The  question 
was  whether  the  ice  would  take  his  weight.  He 
worked  carefully,  laboriously,  along  by  shoulder 
and  elbow,  his  body  swinging  from  the  waist,  start 
ing  a  rain  of  ice  at  every  move.  At  last,  where  the 
wall  crumbled,  leaving  a  ledge,  he  was  able  to  draw 
himself  to  his  knees.  He  cut  foothold  with  his 
knife,  and  other  niches  higher  up  for  his  hands, 
and  pulled  himself  erect  on  the  slippery  shelf. 

Beyond  him  the  chasm  widened  between  sheer 
walls,  and  it  was  in  this  shaft  that  the  lowered 
rope  hung.  It  swung  for  a  moment,  like  a  failing 
pendulum,  and  each  oscillation,  though  he  stood 
alert,  missed  his  reach  a  little  more.  The  girl,  peer 
ing  into  the  abyss,  understood,  and  again  disap 
peared.  The  line  was  drawn  up,  and  presently  it 
dropped  almost  at  his  shoulder.  He  caught  the 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  171 

end  and,  looking  up,  met  her  eyes  over  the  rim. 
"That's  better,"  he  said. 

"Wait — one  moment,"  she  called  and  was  gone 
once  more.  She  did  not  return  this  time,  but  her 
voice  came  to  him,  "Now,  now,  all  ready." 

The  lariat  tightened.  It  creaked,  ground  on  the 
edge  of  the  chasm;  ice  chips  fell  ceaselessly.  He 
swung  out.  He  was  a  big  fellow,  heavy.  Would  the 
support  hold  ?  Would  Mose,  his  fury  cooled,  be  neu 
tral?  Why,  yes,  surely  the  boy  was  even  setting 
himself  to  ease  the  strain.  He  could  feel  an  un 
mistakable  give  and  pull  above  on  the  rope,  as  he 
climbed,  hand  over  hand. 

He  gained  the  top.  He  reached  a  palm  around  a 
slight  pinnacle,  for  a  final  grasp  on  the  line,  and 
pulled  himself  slowly  out  on  the  surface  of  the 
glacier.  He  was  a  strong  man  physically,  a  man 
of  steady  nerve,  one  accustomed  to  take  risks  with 
Nature,  as  in  those  times  a  man  of  the  Northwest 
must,  but  what  he  saw  in  that  b'rief  pause  .sent  a 
shiver  through  him.  He  closed  his  eyes  like  one 
brought  suddenly  into  intense  light. 

The  rope  was  fastened,  as  he  had  directed,  to  a 
thick  column  in  the  upheaval,  but  it  stretched  di 
agonally  to  the  projection  on  the  brink  of  the  cre 
vasse.  And  it  was  Alice,  not  Mose,  who  steadied 
it,  throwing  her  weight  on  it,  twisting  it  on  her 
hands,  digging  her  heels  in  a  shallow  cleft,  strain 
ing  back  to  ease  the  pressure  on  the  knob.  Sup 
pose  the  support  had  given  way;  suppose  he  had 
dragged  her — this  brave  girl,  all  life,  charm,  love 
liness — down  to  destruction.  It  was  horrible  to 
think  of.  Horrible ! 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  got  to  his  feet. 


172  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

He  did  not  speak  to  her  then ;  he  could  not.  But 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  lifted  his  voice 
in  a  great  hail.  Kingsley  responded,  but  his 
"Hello,"  came  faintly,  through  billows  of  mist. 
The  calls  were  repeated.  '  *  We  cannot  wait, ' '  Strat- 
ton  said.  "We  must  follow  that  rascal's  tracks 
down,  while  they  last,  to  the  horses. ' ' 

"What  made  Mose  do  it?"  she  asked.  "Oh, 
what  made  him  ? ' ' 

"Why,  just  Indian,  I  suppose;  or  say  he  was  an 
instrument,  self-appointed,  of  his  Tyee  Sahgalee. 
But  he  shall  be  punished. ' ' 

They  made  the  rocky  knob  and  finally,  out  of  ob 
scurity,  she  caught  Colonel's  familiar  neigh.  The 
call  shrilled  again,  inquiring,  peremptory.  But 
when  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  moraine,  where 
they  had  left  the  horses,  they  found  them  gone. 

The  neigh  was  repeated  once  more,  coming  back 
faintly,  from  far  across  the  snowfield.  * '  Mr.  Strat- 
ton,"  she  cried,  "what  has  happened?  Where  is 
Mose  going?" 

"Over  the  mountains  to  the  Palouse  plains,  I 
haven't  a  doubt,"  and  the  blade  flashed  again  in 
his  eyes.  "It's  the  first  thing  a  half-breed  does, 
and  they  always  drive  stolen  horses  over  there;  it 
is  impossible  to  find  them  among  those  big,  feeding 
bands  of  the  Yakimas.  He  will  stampede  the  rest 
in  the  valley,  and  Yelm  Jim  will  probably  meet 
him  somewhere  below  the  springs  and  help  him  take 
them  through  the  Pass." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  head  high,  lips 
set,  looking  with  storming  eyes  into  the  mist.  Then, 
"There  isn't  any  time  to  waste,"  she  said.  "We 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  173 

must  take  him  this  side  of  the  springs."  And  she 
began  to  trail  the  horses  on  across  the  snow. 

It  was  twilight  and  they  were  descending  the 
final  pitch  into  the  park  when  Kingsley  at  last 
overtook  them.  The  camp-fire,  which  Samantha  had 
kindled  with  infinite  difficulty  on  the  plateau, 
burned  like  a  beacon  in  the  gloom.  "You  should 
have  seen  that  second  crevasse, ' '  he  said.  ' '  It  was 
tremendous.  No  way  over,  no  way  around;  I 
tramped  both  directions  to  see.  We've  simply  got 
to  choose  another  route  to-morrow.  But  what  be 
came  of  the  horses?" 

' '  Mose  took  them. ' '  It  was  Alice  who  answered. 
"He  took  Colonel.  But  I  shall  find  him.  I've  got 
to  find  him  if  I  have  to  walk  every  step  of  the  way 
over  the  mountains  and  through  the  Palouse.  You 
know  how  much  Paul  thinks  of  his  horse,  Philip. 
Oh,  I  can  never  face  him;  I  can  never  tell  him — 
the  truth." 

Camp  was  broken  hurriedly,  each  of  the  men  tak 
ing  the  necessary  shoulder  pack,  and  leaving  the 
bulk  of  the  outfit  to  be  sent  for  when  they  should 
find  horses.  They  pushed  quickly  down  from  the 
snow,  which  became  rain  in  the  woods.  And  Alice 
led  the  way.  She  studied  the  trail  continually,  sep 
arating  the  tracks  of  the  ponies,  where  they  struck 
the  path  down  the  valley,  from  the  deeper,  water- 
filled  impressions  of  the  American  horses.  She  set 
Stratton  a  pace,  and  kept  it  almost  to  the  ford  of 
the  Paradise.  Then  suddenly  she  stopped  an  in 
stant,  listening,  and  ran  on  along  the  bank  to  an  old 
log  foot-crossing.  There  on  the  end  of  the  bridge, 
sheltered  by  a  trailing  cedar,  were  her  bridle  and 


174  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

saddle,  and  picketed  on  a  grassy  knoll  under  some 
alders  she  saw  the  black. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  and  took  his  head  in  her  arms, 
"you  beauty!  You  heart's  desire!  But  I  knew — 
I  knew  Mose  couldn  't  take  you ;  I  knew  it. ' ' 

Stratton  stood  for  a  moment  watching  her. 
"So,"  he  said,  "so  the  rascal  was  white  enough  to 
leave  your  horse.  He  brought  him  this  far  with 
the  others  to  avoid  pursuit  last  night. ' ' 

Alice  looked  off  a  thoughtful  moment,  through 
the  dripping  trees.  "I  knew  his  white  conscience 
would  get  to  upbraiding  him,"  she  said.  "But  I 
can't  help  feeling  glad  he  chose  Coloned  for  the 
compromise. ' ' 

Stratton  laughed.  "I  hope  it  will  upbraid  him 
some  more, ' '  he  said, '  *  and  induce  him  to  leave  my 
horse. ' ' 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  the  black  also  halted, 
tossing  his  mane,  and  shrilling  his  ready,  challeng 
ing  neigh.  There,  moving  out  of  the  stream,  up  the 
opposite  bank,  was  a  riderless  horse.  It  was  Sir 
Donald. 

Stratton  whistled  a  soft,  imperative  note.  The 
chestnut  wheeled.  The  man  repeated  the  call,  and 
the  horse  trotted  gently  back  into  the  channel.  He 
halted  once  more  on  a  gravel  bar,  his  head  high, 
ears  alert,  then  came  on  across  to  his  master. 

"So,"  said  Stratton,  slowly.  ''So,  Donald,  you 
showed  the  rascal  your  little  trick.  You  see,  Miss 
Hunter,  it  was  as  I  thought.  Mose  chose  the  best 
horse.  But  he  never  mounted  him.  In  his  hurry 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  bit,  and  Sir  Donald  never 
allows  that ;  he  was  trained  that  way. ' ' 

With  this  he  vaulted  into  the  saddle  and  led  the 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  175 

way  over  from  bar  to  bar.  He  returned  bringing 
the  black,  and  while  the  others  made  the  crossing 
Alice  waited,  seating  herself  on  a  rock  in  the  sun, 
and  lifting  her  face  to  the  upper  canon.  Presently 
the  clouds  parted  like  a  rent  veil  on  the  mountain. 
Once  more  Gibraltar  menaced  and  the  summit 
shone  in  splendor. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  when  Stratton  rejoined 
her,  "I  can't  blame  Mose  for  that  belief.  I  felt  it 
myself,  for  a  moment,  there  on  the  glacier.  It  was 
the  steps  of  the  Great  White  Throne.  You  can't 
understand. ' ' 

He  bent  and  offered  his  hand  to  mount  her  on 
her  horse,  her  sister  having  kept  the  black,  and  she 
sprang  lightly  up.  "Then,"  she  said,  while  he  ad 
justed  the  stirrup,  "you  see  no  excuse  for  Mose?" 

"Xo,"  and  his  face  hardened.  "No,  I  only  see 
the  half-breed  threw  me  into  that  crevasse.  He 
took  me  off  guard.  And  he  left  us  miles  from  any 
where,  on  that  unknown  mountain,  in  a  storm, 
without  horses.  His  motives  do  not  count." 

Sir  Donald  started,  trailing  after  the  black.  The 
little  company  filed  slowly  down  to  the  mineral 
springs.  And  there,  in  the  open,  unpicketed,  ready 
for  the  long  trail,  they  found  the  other  horses 
quietly  feeding  in  company  with  Ginger  and  the 
pack  animals. 

While  Samantha  made  a  fire  and  prepared  the 
coffee  the  two  men  caught  and  picketed  the  herd, 
reserving  the  few  horses  necessary  for  a  hurried 
trip  back  to  the  plateau  for  the  outfit.  And  it  was 
Alice,  who,  going  for  a  drink  from  her  favorite 
well,  discovered  Mose.  He  was  lying  semi-conscious 
on  the  wet  earth,  and  over  his  black  brows,  branded 


176  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

with  the  tip  of  an  iron  shoe,  Sir  Donald  had  set 
his  mark. 

The  teacher  dipped  her  handkerchief  in  the  basin 
and  bathed  the  hurt.  She  went  to  ask  Stratton's 
flask  of  him,  and  mixed  the  boy  a  draught,  and,  a 
little  later,  when  the  young  man  followed  her  to  the 
spring,  he  found  Mose  able  to  recognize  him.  He 
stood  silent  a  moment  watching  him  with  hard  eyes, 
and  the  boy  met  the  look  steadily ;  his  muscles  stif 
fened  as  they  had  that  day  at  school,  when  he 
braced  himself  to  Laramie's  blow.  Stratton's  lip 
curled  in  disgust.  After  all,  he  could  not  punish 
the  fellow,  down,  helpless  like  that.  He  swung  on 
his  heel. 

"Wait,"  said  Alice,  "it  was  just  as  you  thought. 
The  scheme  to  steal  the  horses  was  Yelm  Jim's;  he 
was  to  meet  him  at  the  branch  to  the  Pass  and  help 
drive  them  over  the  mountains  to  the  Palouse 
plains.  But  he  meant  to  leave  Colonel;  he  only 
brought  him  as  far  as  the  Paradise  to  avoid  being 
overtaken.  And  that  trouble  at  the  crevasse  was 
unpremediated.  He  was  terribly  frightened  by  the 
gathering  storm.  He  believed  it  was  a  judgment 
coming  on  us  all,  and  he  took  the  opportunity  to — 
use  you — for  a  propitiation.  Afterwards,  in  the 
night,  he  crept  back  up  the  valley  far  enough  to 
see  the  camp-fire,  and  you,  safe — and  keeping  watch 
on  the  plateau. 9 ' 

There  was  another  brief  silence.  Stratton  stood, 
still  hard,  uncompromising,  frowning  down  at  the 
boy.  ' '  Be  merciful, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Think ;  you  were 
not  hurt;  you  have  Sir  Donald,  unharmed.  Be 
generous.  Some  time — who  knows  ? —  you  yourself 
may  ask  it." 


Ascent  of  Mt.  Rainier  111 

"No,  "he  flashed.  "No.  I  live  my  life ;  I  do  as  I 
please.  I  ask  nothing  of  anyone.  And  in  the  end 
— I  take  what  I  deserve.  That  is  my  creed.  The 
boy  must  be  punished." 

He  turned  away,  but  she  followed.  In  her  earn 
estness  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve.  "He  has 
been  punished,"  she  said.  "Look.  He  will  carry 
Sir  Donald's  brand  all  his  life.  He's  just  a  boy, 
Mr.  Stratton.  He  left  home  angry,  outraged,  and 
Yelrn  Jim  took  the  opportunity  to  make  him  his 
tool.  But  he  has  good  in  him,  I  know.  Remember, 
too,  he  saved  my  life.  And  I  need  him;  I'll  be  re 
sponsible  for  him." 

Her  eyes  were  raised  to  Stratton  eloquent  with 
appeal;  the  hand  on  his  arm  trembled.  "You  need 
him ;  he  saved  your  life. ' '  He  paused  and  the  hard 
ness  went  out  of  his  face.  ' '  And  you  saved  mine — 
you  saved  mine;  I  do  not  forget  that.  And  per 
haps  you  were  right  just  now;  sometimes  I  may 
ask  that  mercy.  I  may  ask  it  of — you." 

Her  hand  fell  from  his  sleeve ;  she  drew  back  a 
step.  "I  will  be  ready,"  she  said  slowly,  "if  you 
are  good  to  Mose."  She  looked  back  at  the  boy. 
He  was  watching  her.  His  lip  quivered  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  unaccustomed  tears.  "I'll  be  re 
sponsible  for  him,"  she  repeated.  "I'm  going  to 
make  him  white."— From  "The  Heart  of  the  Red 
Firs." 


178  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

TO  THE  PIONEERS  THAT  EEMAIN 

BY  A.  J.  WATERHOUSE 


i 


HAVE  no  word  to  speak  their  praise, 

Theirs  was  the  deed ;  the  guerdon  ours, 
The  wilderness  and  weary  days 

Were  theirs  alone;  for  us  the  flowers. 
They  sowed  the  seed  that  we  might  reap ; 

Ours  is  the  fruitage  of  their  years. 
And  now,  behold,  they  drop  to  sleep, 

And  we  have  naught  for  them  save  tears. 

The  flag,  whose  luster  none  may  mar, 

The  brightest  thing  that  loves  the  air, 
See  you  our  California's  star 

Amidst  the  rest  ?    They  set  it  there. 
What  wonder  that  it  droops  to-day, 

The  while  another  folds  his  hands, 
And  silent,  floats  away,  away, 

From  golden  sands  to  golden  sands. 

So  they  go  out.    A  little  while 

And  none  shall  answer  to  the  call. 
Still  shall  the  great  world  weep  or  smile, 

But  they  shall  be  all  silent — all. 
Still  shall  the  life  tides  ebb  and  flow 

And  mark  the  rhythm  of  the  years, 
And  they  no  more  shall  heed  or  know, 

Forgotten  cares  and  hopes  and  fears. 


'HE 

UNIVER3ITY 

V        GF 

^£^UFOR*£" 


The  Love  Master  179 


When  they  are  gone;  when  o'er  one's  clay 

Our  tears  of  long  farewell  shall  fall, 
We'll  pay  our  tribute  then  and  say: 

''He  was  the  last,  the  last  of  all. 
Ah,  they  were  stalwart  men,"  we'll  sigh, 

"The  future's  promise  on  each  brow." 
So  shall  we  whisper  then,  but  I  — 

I  pay  that  tribute  here  and  now. 

—  From  *  '  Some  Homely  Little  Songs.  '  ' 


THE  LOVE  MASTER 

BY  JACK  LONDON 

WHEEDON  SCOTT  had  set  himself  to  the  task 
of  redeeming  White  Fang — or  rather,  of 
redeeming  mankind  from  the  wrong  it  had  done 
"White  Fang.  It  was  a  matter  of  principle  and 
conscience.  He  felt  that  the  ill  done  White  Fang 
was  a  debt  incurred  by  man  and  that  it  must  be 
paid.  So  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  be  especially 
kind  to  the  Fighting  Wolf.  Each  day  he  made  it 
a  point  to  pet  and  caress  White  Fang,  and  to  do  it 
at  length. 

At  first  suspicious  and  hostile,  White  Fang  grew 
to  like  this  petting.  But  there  was  one  thing  that 
he  never  outgrew — his  growling.  Growl  he  would, 
from  the  moment  the  petting  began  till  it  ended. 
But  it  was  a  growl  with  a  new  note  in  it.  A  strang 
er  could  not  hear  this  note,  and  to  such  a  stranger 
the  growling  of  White  Fang  was  an  exhibition  of 
primordial  savagery,  nerve-racking  and  blood-curd- 


[  Copy  right  by  The  Macmillan  Company,  1906.] 


180  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

ling.  But  White  Fang's  throat  had  become  harsh- 
fibred  from  the  making  of  ferocious  sounds  through 
the  many  years  since  his  first  little  rasp  of  anger 
in  the  lair  of  his  cubhood,  and  he  could  not  soften 
the  sounds  of  his  throat  now  to  express  the  gentle 
ness  he  felt.  Nevertheless,  "Wheedon  Scott's  ear 
and  sympathy  were  fine  enough  to  catch  the  new 
note  all  but  drowned  in  the  fierceness — the  note 
that  was  the  faintest  hint  of  a  croon  of  content  and 
that  none  but  he  could  hear. 

As  the  days  went  by,  the  evolution  of  like  into 
love  was  accelerated.  White  Fang  himself  began 
to  grow  aware  of  it,  though  in  his  consciousness  he 
knew  not  what  love  was.  It  manifested  itself  to 
him  as  a  void  in  his  being- — a  hungry,  aching, 
yearning  void  that  clamored  to  be  filled.  It  was  a 
pain  and  an  unrest;  and  it  received  easement  only 
by  the  touch  of  the  new  god's  presence.  At  such 
times  love  was  joy  to  him — a  wild,  keen-thrilling 
satisfaction.  But  when  away  from  his  god,  the 
pain  and  the  unrest  returned;  the  void  in  him 
sprung  up  and  pressed  against  him  with  its  empti 
ness,  and  the  hunger  gnawed  and  gnawed  unceas 
ingly. 

White  Fang  was  in  the  process  of  finding  him 
self.  In  spite  of  the  maturity  of  his  years  and  of 
the  savage  rigidity  of  the  mould  that  had  formed 
him,  his  nature  was  undergoing  an  expansion. 
There  was  a  burgeoning  within  him  of  strange 
feelings  and  unwonted  impulses.  His  old  code  of 
conduct  was  changing.  In  the  past  he  had  liked 
comfort  and  surcease  from  pain,  disliked  discom 
fort  and  pain,  and  he  had  adjusted  his  actions  ac 
cordingly.  But  now  it  was  different.  Because  of 


The  Love  Master  181 

this  new  feeling  within  him,  he  ofttimes  elected 
pain  and  discomfort  for  the  sake  of  his  god.  Thus, 
in  the  early  morning,  instead  of  roaming  and  forag 
ing,  or  lying  in  a  sheltered  nook,  he  would  wait  for 
hours  on  the  cheerless  cabin-stoop  for  a  sight  of  his 
god's  face.  At  night  when  the  god  returned  home. 
White  Fang  would  leave  the  warm  sleeping  place 
he  had  burrowed  in  the  snow  in  order  to  receive 
the  friendly  snap  of  the  fingers  and  friendly  word 
of  greeting.  Meat,  even  meat  itself,  he  would  fore 
go  to  be  with  his  god,  to  receive  a  caress  from  him 
or  to  accompany  him  down  into  the  town. 

Like  had  been  replaced  by  love.  And  love  was 
the  plummet  dropped  down  into  the  deeps  of  him 
where  like  had  never  gone.  And,  responsive,  out 
of  his  deeps  had  come  the  new  thing — love.  That 
which  was  given  unto  him  did  he  return.  This  was 
a  god  indeed,  a  love-god,  a  warm  and  radiant  god, 
in  whose  light  White  Fang's  nature  expanded  as  a 
flower  expands  under  the  sun. 

But  "White  Fang  was  not  demonstrative.  He  was 
too  old,  too  firmly  moulded,  to  become  adept  at  ex 
pressing  himself  in  new  ways.  He  was  too  self- 
possessed,  too  strongly  poised  in  his  own  isolation. 
Too  long  had  he  cultivated  reticence,  aloofness,  and 
moroseness.  He  had  never  barked  in  his  life,  and 
he  could  not  now  learn  to  bark  a  welcome  when  his 
god  approached.  He  was  never  in  the  way,  never 
extravagant  nor  foolish  in  the  expression  of  his 
love.  He  never  ran  to  meet  his  god.  He  waited  at 
a  distance ;  but  he  always  waited,  was  always  there. 
His  love  partook  of  the  nature  of  worship,  dumb, 
inarticulate,  a  silent  adoration.  Only  by  the  steady 
regard  of  his  eyes  did  he  express  his  love,  and  by 
13 


182  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

the  unceasing  following  with  his  eyes  of  his  god's 
every  movement.  Also,  at  times,  when  his  god 
looked  at  him  and  spoke  to  him,  he  Jftetrayed  an 
awkward  self-consciousness,  caused  by  the  struggle 
of  his  love  and  his  physical  inability  to  express  it. 

He  learned  to  adjust  himself  in  many  ways  to 
his  new  mode  of  life.  It  was  borne  in  upon  him 
that  he  must  let  his  master's  dogs  alone.  Yet  his 
dominant  nature  asserted  itself,  and  he  had  first  to 
thrash  them  into  an  acknowledgment  of  his  su 
periority  and  leadership.  This  accomplished,  he 
had  little  trouble  with  them.  They  gave  trail  to 
him  when  he  came  and  went  or  walked  among  them, 
and  when  he  asserted  his  will  they  obeyed. 

In  the  same  way,  he  came  to  tolerate  Matt — as  a 
possession  of  his  master.  His  master  rarely  fed 
him.  Matt  did  that ;  it  was  his  business ;  yet  White 
Fang  divined  that  it  was  his  master's  food  he  ate 
•  and  that  it  was  his  master  who  thus  fed  him  vicari 
ously.  Matt  it  was  who  tried  to  put  him  into  the 
harness  and  make  him  haul  sled  with  the  other 
dogs,  but  Matt  failed.  It  was  not  until  Wheedon 
Scott  put  the  harness  on  White  Fang  and  worked 
him,  that  he  understood.  He  took  it  as  his  master's 
will  that  Matt  should  drive  him,  and  work  him  just 
as  he  drove  and  worked  his  master 's  other  dogs. 

Different  from  the  Mackenzie  toboggans  were  the 
Klondike  sleds  with  runners  under  them,  and  dif 
ferent  was  the  method  of  driving  the  dogs.  There 
was  no  fan-formation  of  the  team.  And  here,  in 
the  Klondike,  the  leader  was  indeed  the  leader. 
The  wisest  as  well  as  the  strongest  dog  was  the 
leader,  and  the  team  obeyed  him  and  feared  him. 
That  White  Fang  should  quickly  gain  the  post  was 


The  Love  Master  183 

inevitable.  He  could  not  be  satisfied  with  less,  as 
[Matt  learned  after  much  trouble  and  inconvenience. 
White  Fang  picked  out  the  post  for  himself,  and 
Matt  backed  his  judgment  with  strong  language 
after  the  experiment  had  been  tried.  But,  though 
he  worked  in  the  sled  in  the  day,  White  Fang  did 
not  forego  the  guarding  of  his  master 's  property 
in  the  night.  Thus  he  was  on  duty  all  the  time, 
ever  vigilant  and  faithful,  the  most  valuable  of  all 
the  dogs. 

"Makin'  free  to  spit  out  what's  in  me,"  Matt 
said  one  day,  "I  beg  to  state  that  you  was  a  wise 
guy,  all  right,  when  you  paid  the  price  you  did  for 
that  dog.  You  clean  swindled  Beauty  Smith  on 
top  of  pushin '  his  face  in  with  your  fist. '  * 

A  recrudescence  of  anger  glinted  in  Wheedon 
Scott's  gray  eyes,  and  he  muttered  savagely,  "The 
beast!" 

In  the  late  spring  a  great  trouble  came  to  White 
Fang.  Without  warning  the  love-master  disap 
peared.  There  had  been  warning,  but  White  Fang 
was  unversed  in  such  things  and  did  not  under 
stand  the  packing  of  a  grip.  He  remembered  after 
ward  that  the  packing  had  preceded  the  master's 
disappearance ;  but  at  the  time  he  suspected  noth 
ing.  That  night  he  waited  for  his  master  to  return. 
At  midnight  the  chill  winds  that  blew  drove  him  to 
shelter  at  the  rear  of  the  cabin.  There  he  drowsed, 
only  half  asleep,  his  ears  keyed  for  the  first  sound 
of  the  familiar  step.  But,  at  two  in  the  morning, 
his  anxiety  drove  him  out  to  the  cold  front  stoop, 
where  he  crouched  and  waited. 

But  no  master  came.  In  the  morning  the  door 
opened  and  Matt  stepped  outside.  White  Fang 


184  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

gazed  at  him  wistfully.  There  was  no  common 
speech  by  which  he  might  learn  what  he  wanted  to 
know.  The  days  came  and  went,  but  never  the 
master.  White  Fang,  who  had  never  known  sick 
ness  in  his  life,  became  sick.  He  became  so  sick 
that  Matt  was  obliged  to  bring  him  inside  the  cabin. 
Also,  in  writing  to  his  employer,  Matt  devoted  a 
postscript  to  White  Fang. 

Wheedon  Scott  reading  the  letter,  down  in  Circle 
City,  came  upon  the  following : 

''That  wolf  won't  work.  Won't  eat.  Ain't  got 
no  spunk  left.  All  the  dogs  is  licking  him.  Wants 
to  know  what  has  become  of  you,  and  I  don't  know 
how  to  tell  him.  Mebbe  he  is  going  to  die. ' ' 

It  was  as  Matt  had  said.  White  Fang  had  ceased 
eating;  lost  heart,  and  allowed  every  dog  of  the 
team  to  thrash  him.  In  the  cabin  he  lay  on  the 
floor  near  the  stove,  without  interest  in  food,  in 
Matt,  nor  in  life.  Matt  might  talk  gently  to  him, 
might  swear  at  him,  it  was  all  the  same ;  he  never 
did  more  than  turn  his  dull  eyes  upon  the  man, 
then  drop  his  head  back  to  its  customary  position 
on  his  forepaws. 

And  then,  one  night,  Matt,  reading  to  himself 
with  moving  lips  and  mumbled  sounds,  was  startled 
by  a  low  whine  from  White  Fang.  He  had  got  up 
on  his  feet,  his  ears  cocked  toward  the  door,  and 
he  was  listening  intently.  A  moment  later,  Matt 
heard  a  footstep.  The  door  opened,  and  Wheedon 
Scott  stepped  in.  The  two  men  shook  hands.  Then 
Scott  looked  around  the  room. 

1  'Where's  the  wolf?"  he  asked. 

Then  he  discovered  him  standing  where  he  had 
been  lying,  near  the  stove.  He  had  not  rushed  for- 


The  Love  Master  185 

ward  after  the  manner  of  other  dogs.  He  stood 
watching  and  waiting. 

1 ' Holy  smoke!"  Matt  exclaimed.  ''Look  at  him 
wag  his  tail!1' 

Wheedon  Scott  strode  half  across  the  room  toward 
him,  at  the  same  time  calling  him.  "White  Fang 
came  to  him,  not  with  a  great  bound,  yet  quickly. 
He  was  awkward  from  self-consciousness,  but  as  he 
drew  near  his  eyes  took  on  a  strange  expression. 
Something,  an  incommunicable  vastness  of  feeling, 
rose  up  into  his  eyes  and  shone  forth. 

"He  never  looked  at  me  that  way  all  the  time 
you  was  gone/'  Matt  commented. 

Wheedon  Scott  did  not  hear.  He  was  squatting 
down  on  his  heels,  face  to  face  with  White  Fang, 
and  petting  him — rubbing  at  the  roots  of  his  ears, 
making  long,  caressing  strokes  down  the  neck  to 
the  shoulders,  tapping  the  spine  gently  with  the 
balls  of  his  fingers.  And  White  Fang  was  growl 
ing  responsively,  the  crooning  note  of  the  growl 
more  pronounced  than  ever. 

But  that  was  not  all.  What  of  his  joy,  the  great 
love  in  him,  ever  surging  and  struggling  to  express 
itself,  succeeded  in  finding  a  new  mode  of  expres 
sion.  He  suddenly  thrust  his  head  forward  and 
nudged  his  way  in  between  his  master's  arm  and 
body.  And  here,  confined,  hidden  from  view,  all  ex 
cept  his  ears,  no  longer  growling,  he  continued  to 
nudge  and  snuggle. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  Scott's  eyes 
were  shining. 

* '  Gosh ! ' '  said  Matt  in  an  awe-stricken  voice. 

A  moment  later,  when  he  had  recovered  himself, 


186  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

he  said,  "I  always  insisted  that  wolf  was  a  dog. 
Look  at  'm!" 

With  the  return  of  the  love-master,  White 
Pang's  recovery  was  rapid.  Two  nights  and  a  day 
he  spent  in  the  cabin.  Then  he  sallied  forth.  The 
sled-dogs  had  forgotten  his  prowess.  They  remem 
bered  only  the  latest,  which  was  his  sickness  and 
weakness.  At  the  sight  of  him  as  he  came  out  of 
the  cabin,  they  sprang  upon  him. 

"Talk  about  your  rough  houses,"  Matt  mur 
mured  gleefully,  standing  in  the  doorway  and  look 
ing  on. 

White  Pang  did  not  need  any  encouragement. 
The  return  of  the  love-master  was  enough.  Life 
was  flowing  through  him  again,  splendid  and  in- 
domitable.  He  fought  from  sheer  joy,  finding  it 
an  expression  of  much  that  he  felt  and  that  other 
wise  was  without  speech.  There  could  be  but  one 
ending.  The  team  dispersed  in  ignominious  defeat, 
and  it  was  not  until  after  dark  that  the  dogs  came 
sneaking  back,  one  by  one,  by  meekness  and  humil 
ity  signifying  their  fealty  to  White  Pang. 

Having  learned  to  snuggle,  White  Pang  was 
guilty  of  it  often.  It  was  the  final  word.  He  could 
not  go  beyond  it.  The  one  thing  of  which  he  had 
always  been  particularly  jealous  was  his  head.  He 
had  always  disliked  to  have  it  touched.  It  was  the 
wild  in  him,  the  fear  of  hurt  and  of  the  trap,  that 
had  given  rise  to  the  panicky  impulses  to  avoid 
contacts.  It  was  the  mandate  of  his  instinct  that 
his  head  must  be  free.  And  now,  with  the  love- 
master,  his  snuggling  was  the  deliberate  act  of  put 
ting  himself  into  a  position  of  hopeless  helpless 
ness.  It  was  an  expression  of  perfect  confidence, 


The  Love  Master  187 

of  absolute  self-surrender,  as  though  he  said:  "I 
put  myself  into  thy  hands.  Work  thou  thy  will 
with  me." 

One  night,  not  long  after  the  return,  Scott  and 
Matt  sat  at  a  game  of  cribbage  preliminary  to  go 
ing  to  bed.  "Fifteen-two,  fifteen-four  an'  a  pair 
makes  six,"  Matt  was  pegging  up,  when  there  was 
an  outcry  and  sound  of  snarling  without.  They 
looked  at  each  other  as  they  started  to  rise  to  their 
feet. 

"The  wolf's  nailed  somebody,"  Matt  said. 

A  wild  scream  of  fear  and  anguish  hastened 
them. 

"Bring  a  light !"  Scott  shouted,  as  he  sprang  out 
side.  Matt  followed  with  the  lamp,  and  by  its  light 
they  saw  a  man  lying  on  his  back  in  the  snow.  His 
arms  were  folded,  one  above  the  other,  across  his 
face  and  throat.  Thus  he  was  trying  to  shield 
himself  from  White  Fang's  teeth.  And  there  was 
need  for  it.  "White  Fang  was  in  a  rage,  wickedly 
making  his  attack  on  the  most  vulnerable  spot. 
From  shoulder  to  wrist  of  the  crossed  arms,  the 
coat  sleeve,  blue  flannel  shirt  and  undershirt  were 
ripped  in  rags,  while  the  arms  themselves  were  ter 
ribly  slashed  and  streaming  blood. 

All  this  the  two  men  saw  in  the  first  instant. 
The  next  instant  Wheedon  Scott  had  White  Fang 
by  the  throat  and  was  dragging  him  clear.  White 
Fang  struggled  and  snarled,  but  made  no  attempt 
to  bite,  while  he  quickly  quieted  down  at  a  sharp 
word  from  his  master. 

Matt  helped  the  man  to  his  feet.  As  he  arose  he 
lowered  his  crossed  arms,  exposing  the  bestial  face 
of  Beauty  Smith.  The  dog-musher  let  go  of  him 


188  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

precipitately,  with  action  similar  to  that  of  a  man 
who  had  picked  up  live  fire.  Beauty  Smith  blinked 
in  the  lamplight  and  looked  about  him.  He  caught 
sight  of  White  Fang  and  terror  rushed  into  his 
face. 

At  the  same  moment  Matt  noticed  two  objects 
lying  in  the  snow.  He  held  the  lamp  close  to  them, 
indicating  them  with  his  toe  for  his  employer's 
benefit — a  steel  dog  chain  and  a  stout  club. 

Wheedon  Scott  saw  and  nodded.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken.  The  dog-musher  laid  his  hand  on  Beauty 
Smith's  shoulder  and  faced  him  to  the  right  about. 
No  word  needed  to  be  spoken.  Beauty  Smith 
started. 

In  the  meantime  the  love-master  was  patting 
"White  Fang  and  talking  to  him. 

"Tried  to  steal  you,  eh?  And  you  wouldn't 
have  it !  Well,  well  he  made  a  mistake,  didn't  he  ? " 

"Must  'a  thought  he  had  hold  of  seventeen 
devils,"  the  dog-musher  sniggered. 

White  Fang,  still  wrought  up  and  bristling, 
growled  and  growled,  the  hair  slowly  lying  down, 
the  crooning  note  remote  and  dim,  but  growing  in 
his  throat.— From  "White  Fang." 


FATHEE  SALVIERDERRA'S  FAITH 

BY  HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON 

IT  was   longer    than  the  Senora  had  thought  it 
would  be    before  Father  Salvierderra  arrived. 
The  old  man  had  grown  feeble  during  the  year  that 
she  had  not  seen  him,  and  it  wTas  a  very  short  day's 
journey  that  he  could  make  now  without  too  great 


Father  Salvier derm's  Faith  189 

fatigue.  It  was  not  only  his  body  that  had  failed. 
He  had  lost  heart ;  and  the  miles  which  would  have 
been  nothing  to  him  had  he  walked  in  the  compan 
ionship  of  hopeful  and  happy  thoughts  stretched 
out  wearily  as  he  brooded  over  sad  memories  and 
still  sadder  anticipations — the  down-fall  of  the 
Missions,  the  loss  of  their  fair  estate,  and  the  grow 
ing  power  of  the  ungodly  in  the  land.  The  final 
decision  of  the  United  States  Government  in  re 
gard  to  the  Mission  lands  had  been  a  severe  blow 
to  him.  He  had  devoutly  believed  that  ultimate 
restoration  of  these  great  estates  to  the  church  was 
inevitable.  In  the  long  vigils  which  he  always  kept 
when  at  home  at  the  Franciscan  Monastery  in 
Santa  Barbara,  kneeling  on  the  stone  pavement  in 
the  church,  and  praying  ceaselessly  from  midnight 
till  dawn,  he  had  often  had  visions  vouchsafed  him 
of  a  new  dispensation,  in  which  the  Mission  estab 
lishments  should  be  reinstated  in  all  their  old 
splendor  and  prosperity,  and  their  Indian  converts 
again  numbered  by  tens  of  thousands. 

Long  after  every  one  knew  that  this  was  impos 
sible,  he  would  narrate  these  visions  with  the  faith 
of  an  old  Bible  seer,  and  declare  that  they  must 
come  true  and  that  it  was  a  sin  to  despond.  But 
as  year  after  year  he  journeyed  up  and  down  the 
country,  seeing,  at  Mission  after  Mission,  the  build 
ings  crumbled  into  ruin,  the  lands  all  taken,  sold, 
resold,  and  settled  by  greedy  speculators,  the  In 
dian  converts  disappearing,  driven  back  to  their 
original  wildernesses,  the  last  trace  of  the  noble 
work  of  his  order  being  rapidly  swept  away,  his 
courage  faltered,  his  faith  died  out.  Changes  in 
the  manners  and  customs  of  his  order  itself,  also. 


190  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

were  giving  him  deep  pain.  He  was  a  Franciscan 
of  the  same  type  as  Francis  of  Assisi.  To  wear  a 
shoe  in  place  of  a  sandal,  to  take  money  in  a  purse 
for  a  journey,  above  all  to  lay  aside  the  gray  gown 
and  cowl  for  any  sort  of  secular  garment,  seemed* 
to  him  wicked.  To  own  comfortable  clothes  while 
there  were  others  suffering  for  want  of  them — and 
there  were  always  such — seemed  to  him  a  sin  for 
Avhich  one  might,  not  undeservedly,  be  smitten  with 
sudden  and  terrible  punishment.  In  vain  the 
Brothers  again  and  again  supplied  him  with  a 
warm  cloak ;  he  gave  it  away  to  the  first  beggar  he 
met;  and  as  for  food,  the  refactory  would  have 
been  bare,  and  the  whole  brotherhood  starving,  if 
supplies  had  not  been  carefully  hidden  and  locked, 
so  that  Father  Salvierderra  could  not  give  them 
away.  He  was  fast  becoming  that  most  tragic  yet 
often  sublime  sight,  a  man  who  has  survived,  not 
only  his  own  time,  Hut  the  ideas  and  ideals  of  it. 
Earth  holds  no  sharper  loneliness ;  the  bitterness  of 
exile,  the  anguish  of  friendlessness,  at  their  utmost, 
are  in  it;  and  yet  it  is  so  much  greater  than  they 
that  even  they  seem  small  part  of  it. 

It  was  with  thoughts  such  as  these  that  Father 
Salvierderra  drew  near  the  home  of  the  Senora 
Moreno  late  in  the  afternoon  of  one  of  those  mid 
summer  days  of  which  Southern  California  has  so 
many  in  spring.  The  almonds  had  bloomed  and 
the  blossoms  had  fallen ;  the  apricots  also,  and  the 
peaches  and  pears;  on  all  the  orchards  of  these 
fruits  had  come  a  filmy  tint  of  green,  so  light  it 
was  hardly  a  shadow  on  the  gray.  The  willows 
were  vivid  light  green,  and  the  orange  groves  dark 
and  glossy  like  laurel.  The  billowy  hills  on  either 


Father  Salvierderra's  Faith  191 

side  the  valley  were  covered  with  verdure  and  bloom 
— myriads  of  low  blossoming  plants,  so  close  to  the 
earth  that  their  tints  lapped  and  over-lapped  on 
each  other,  and  on  the  green  of  the  grass,  as  feath 
ers  in  fine  plumage  overlap  each  and  blend  into 
a  changeful  color. 

The  countless  curves,  hollows,  and  crests  of  the 
coast-hills  in  Southern  California  heighten  these 
chameleon  effects  of  the  spring  verdure;  they  are 
like  nothing  in  nature  except  the  glitter  of  a  bril 
liant  lizard  in  the  sun  or  the  irridescent  sheen  of  a 
peacock's  neck. 

Father  Salvierderra  paused  many  times  to  gaze 
at  the  beautiful  picture.  Flowers  were  always  dear 
to  the  Franciscans.  Saint  Francis  himself  permit 
ted  all  decorations  which  could  be  made  of  flowers. 
He  classed  them  with  his  brothers  and  sisters,  the 
sun,  moon  and  stars — all  members  of  the  sacred 
choir  praising  god. 

It  was  melancholy  to  see  how,  after  each  one  of 
these  pauses,  each  fresh  drinking  in  of  the  beauty 
of  the  landscape  and  the  balmy  air,  the  old  man  re 
sumed  his  slow  pace,  with  a  long  sigh  and  his  eyes 
cast  down.  The  fairer  this  beautiful  land,  the  sad 
der  to  know  it  lost  to  the  church — alien  hands  reap 
ing  its  fulness,  establishing  new  customs,  new  laws. 
All  the  way  down  the  coast  from  Santa  Barbara 
he  had  seen,  at  every  stopping  place,  new  tokens  of 
the  settling  up  of  the  country — farms  opening, 
towns  growing;  the  Americans  pouring  in,  at  all 
points,  to  reap  the  advantages  of  their  new  posses 
sions.  It  was  this  which  had  made  his  journey 
heavy-hearted,  and  made  him  feel,  in  approaching 
the  Senora  's,  as  if  he  were  coming  to  one  of  the  last 


192  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

sure  strongholds  of  the  Catholic  faith  left  in  the 
country. 

When  he  was  within  two  miles  of  the  house  he 
struck  off  from  the  highway  into  a  narrow  path 
that  he  recollected  led  by  a  short  cut  through  the 
hills,  and  saved  nearly  a  third  of  the  distance.  It 
was  more  than  a  year  since  he  had  trod  this  path, 
and  as  he  found  it  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
more  and  more  overgrown  with  the  wild  mustard, 
he  said  to  himself,  "I  think  no  one  can  have  passed 
through  here  this  year." 

As  he  proceeded  he  found  the  mustard  thicker 
and  thicker.  The  wild  mustard  in  Southern  Cali 
fornia  is  like  that  spoken  of  in  the  New  Testament, 
in  the  branches  of  which  the  birds  of  the  air  may 
rest.  Coming  up  out  of  the  earth,  so  slender  a  stem 
that  dozens  can  find  a  starting  point  in  an  inch,  it 
darts  up,  a  slender  straight  shoot,  five,  ten,  twenty 
feet,  with  hundreds  of  fine,  feathery  branches  lock 
ing  and  interlocking  with  all  the  other  hundreds 
around  it,  till  it  is  an  inextricable  network,  like  lace. 
Then  it  brusts  into  bloom  still  finer,  more  feathery 
and  lace-like.  The  stems  are  so  infinitesimally 
small,  and  of  so  dark  a  green,  that  at  a  short  dis 
tance  they  do  not  show,  and  the  cloud  of  blossoms 
seem  floating  in  the  air ;  at  times  it  looks  like  golden 
dust  with  a  clear  blue  sky  behind  it ;  as  it  is  often 
seen,  it  looks  like  a  golden  snowstorm.  The  plant 
is  a  tyrant  and  a  nuisance — the  enemy  of  the  farm 
er;  it  takes  riotous  possession  of  a  whole  field  in  a 
season ;  once  in,  never  out ;  for  one  plant  this  year, 
a  million  next ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  wish  that  the 
land  were  freed  from  it.  Its  gold  is  as  distinct  a 
value  to  the  eye  as  the  nugget  gold  is  in  the  pocket. 


Father  Salvierderm's  Faith  193 

Father  Salvierderra  soon  found  himself  in  a 
veritable  thicket  of  these  delicate  branches,  high 
above  his  head,  and  so  interlaced  that  he  could 
make  headway  only  by  slowly  and  patiently  disen 
tangling  them,  as  one  would  disentangle  a  skein  of 
silk.  It  was  a  fantastic  sort  of  dilemma,  and  not 
unpleasing.  Except  that  the  Father  was  in  haste 
to  reach  his  journey's  end,  he  would  have  enjoyed 
threading  his  way  through  the  golden  meshes.  Sud 
denly  he  heard  faint  notes  of  singing.  He  paused, 
listened.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman.  It  was 
slowly  drawing  nearer,  apparently  from  the  direc 
tion  in  which  he  was  going.  At  intervals  it  ceased 
abruptly,  then  began  again,  as  if  by  a  sudden  Hut 
brief  interruption,  like  that  made  by  question  and 
answer.  Then,  peering  ahead  through  the  mus 
tard  blossoms,  he  saw  them  waving  and  bending, 
and  heard  sounds  as  if  they  were  being  broken. 
Evidently  some  one  entering  on  the  path  from  the 
opposite  end  had  been  caught  in  the  fragrant 
thicket  as  he  was.  The  notes  grew  clearer,  though 
still  low  and  sweet  as  the  twilight  notes  of  the 
thrush;  the  mustard  branches  waved  more  and 
more  violently;  light  steps  were  now  to  be  heard. 
Father  Salvierderra  stood  still  as  one  in  a  dream, 
his  eyes  straining  forward  into  the  golden  mist  of 
blossoms. 

"Ramona!"  exclaimed  the  Father,  his  thin 
cheeks  flushing  with  pleasure.  ' '  The  blessed  child. ' ' 
And  as  he  spoke,  her  face  came  in  sight  set  in  a 
swaying  frame  of  the  branches,  as  she  parted  them 
lightly  to  right  and  left  with  her  hands,  and  half 
crept,  half  danced  through  the  loophole  thus  made. 
Ramona 's  beauty  was  of  the  sort  to  be  best  en- 


194  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

hanced  By  the  waving  gold  which  now  framed  her 
face.  She  had  just  enough  of  olive  tint  in  her 
complexion  to  under-lie  and  enrich  it  without  mak 
ing  it  swarthy.  Her  hair  was  like  her  Indian 
mother's,  heavy  and  black,  but  her  eyes  were  like 
her  father's,  steel  blue.  Only  those  who  came  very 
near  to  Ramona  knew,  however,  that  her  eyes  were 
blue,  for  the  heavy,  black  eyebrows  and  long,  black 
lashes  so  shaded  and  shadowed  them  that  they 
looked  black  as  night.  At  the  same  instant  that 
Father  Salvierderra  first  caught  sight  of  her  face 
Ramona  also  saw  him,  and  crying  out  joyfully, 
"Ah,  Father,  I  knew  you  would  come  by  this  path, 
and  something  told  me  you  were  near ! ' '  she  sprang 
forward,  and  sank  on  her  knees  before  him,  bow 
ing  her  head  for  his  blessing.  In  silence  he  laid  his 
hand  on  her  brow.  It  would  not  have  been  easy 
for  him  to  speak  to  her  at  that  first  moment.  She 
had  looked  to  the  devout  old  monk,  as  she  sprang 
through  the  cloud  of  golden  flowers,  the  sun  falling 
on  her  bared  head,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes 
shining,  more  like  an  apparition  of  an  angle  or 
saint  than  like  the  flesh-and-blood  maiden  whom 
he  had  carried  in  his  arms  when  she  was  a  babe. — 
From  "  Ramona. " 


"Two  Bits"  195 

"TWO  BITS" 

BY  SHAELOTT  M.  HALL 

WHERE  the  shimmering  sands  of  the  desert 
beat 

In  waves  to  the  foothills'  rugged  line, 
And  cat-claw  and  cactus  and  brown  mesquite 

Elbow  the  cedar  and  mountain  pine ; 
Under  the  dip  of  a  wind-swept  hill, 

Like  a  little  gray  hawk  Ft.  AYhipple  clung; 
The  fort  was  a  pen  of  peeled  pine  logs, 
And  forty  troopers  the  army  strong. 

At  the  very  gates  when  the  darkness  fell, 

Prowling  Mohave  and  Yavapai 
Signaled  with  shrill  coyote  yell, 

Or  mocked  the  night  owl 's  piercing  cry ; 
Till  once  when  the  guard  turned  shuddering 

For  a  trace  in  the  east  of  the  welcome  dawn, 
Spent,  wounded,  a  courier  reeled  to  his  feet — 

' '  Apaches — rising — AYingate — warn ! ' ' 


"And  half  the  troop  at  the  Date  Creek  Camp !" 

The  captain  muttered,  "Those  devils  heard!" 
White-lipped  he  called  for  a  volunteer 

To  ride  Two  Bits  and  carry  the  word : 
"Alone — it's  a  game  of  hide  and  seek; 

One  man  may  win  where  ten  would  fail;" 
Himself  the  saddle  and  cinches  set 

And  headed  Two  Bits  for  the  Verde  trail. 


196  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Two  Bits !  How  his  still  eyes  woke  to  the  chase ! 

The  bravest  soul  of  them  all  was  he ; 
Hero  of  many  a  hard-won  race, 

With  a  hundred  scars  for  his  pedigree ; 
Wary  of  ambush  and  keen  of  trail, 

Old  in  wisdom  of  march  and  fray, 
And  the  grizzled  veteran  seemed  to  know 

The  lives  that  hung  on  his  hoofs  that  day. 

t '  A  week — Go*  speed  you  and  make  it  less ! 

Ride  by  night  from  the  river  on ; " 
Caps  were  swung  in  a  silent  cheer, 

A  quick  salute  and  the  word  was  gone 
Sunrise,  threading  the  Point  of  Rocks ; 

Dusk  in  the  canons  dark  and  grim — 
Where,  coiled  like  a  flung  thread  'round  the  cliffs, 

The  trail  crawls  up  to  the  frowning  Rim. 

A  pebble  turned,  a  spark  out-struck 

From  steel-shod  hoof  on  the  treacherous  flint — 
Ears  wait,  eyes  strain,  in  the  rocks  above, 

For  the  faintest  whisper,  the  farthest  glint; 
But  shod  with  silence  and  robed  with  night 

They  pass  untracked,  and  mile  by  mile 
The  hills  divide  for  the  flying  fleet, 

And  the  stars  lean  low  to  guide  the  while. 

Never  a  plumed  quail  hid  her  nest 

With  the  stealthiest  care  a  mother  may, 

As  crouched  at  dawn  in  the  chaparral 

These  two  whom  a  heart  b'eat  might  betray; 


"Two  Bits'9  197 

So  hiding  and  riding  night  by  night ; 

Four  days  and  the  end  of  the  riding  near ; 
The  fort  just  hid  in  the  distant  hills — 

But  hist !    A  whisper,  a  breath  of  fear ! 

They  wheel  and  turn — too  late!    Ping!    Ping! 

From  their  very  feet  a  fiery  jet ; 
A  lurch,  a  plunge,  and  the  brave  old  horse 

Leaped  out  with  his  broad  breast  torn  and  wet. 
Ping !    Thud !  on  his  neck  the  rider  swayed ; 

( Ten  thousand  deaths  if  he  reeled  and  fell ! ) 
Behind,  exultant,  the  painted  horde 

Swooped  down  like  a  skirmish  line  from  Hell. 

Not  yet !    Not  yet !    Those  ringing  hoofs 

Have  scarred  their  triumph  on  many  a  course ; 
And  the  desperate,  blood-trailed  chase  swept  on, 

Apache  sinews  'gainst  wounded  horse ; 
Hour  crowding  hour  till  the  yells  died  back, 

Till  the  pat  of  the  moccasined  feet  was  gone, 
And  dumb  to  heeding  of  foe  or  fear 

The  rider  dropped  but  the  horse  kept  on. 

Stiff  and  stumbling  and  spent  and  sore, 

Plodding  the  rough  miles  doggedly, 
Till  the  daybreak  bugles  of  Wingate  rang 

And  a  faint  neigh  answered  the  reveille ; 
Wide  swung  the  gate ;  a  wounded  horse — 

Red-dabbled  pouches  and  riding  gear — 
A  shout,  a  hurry,  a  quick-flung  word — 

And  Boots  and  Saddles  rang  sharp  and  clear. 


14 


198  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

Like  a  stern  commander  the  old  horse  turned 

As  the  troop  filed  out,  and  straight  at  the  head 
He  guided  them  back  on  that  weary  trail 

Till  he  fell  by  his  fallen  rider,  dead ; 
But  the  man  and  the  message  saved !    and  he 

Whose  brave  heart  carried  the  double  load — 
With  his  last  trust  kept  and  his  last  race  won 

They  buried  him  there  on  the  Wingate  road. 

— From  "Out  West  Magazine." 

["Two  Bits,"  an  old  racer,  was,  in  his  day,  the  fastest 
and  the  longest-winded  horse  in  Arizona.  He  belonged  at 
the  time  to  Lieut.  Chas.  Curtis  (now  Capt.  Curtis,  at  the 
University  of  Wisconsin),  who  built  the  first  stockade  on 
the  present  site  of  Ft.  Whipple,  A.  T.  The  episode  is 
true,  even  to  the  old  horse  leading  the  soldiers  back  to 
his  fallen  rider.  The  man  lived;  but  "Two  Bits"  died  of 
his  wounds,  and  is  buried  under  a  heap  of  stones  beside 
the  overland  road  a  few  miles  west  of  Ft.  Wingate,  N.  M. 
The  ride  was  about  250  miles,— Ed.] 


FERNS  AND  FERNERIES 

BY  BELLE  STJMNEE  ANGIEE 

BEFORE  planting  your  out-of-door  retreat  for 
ferns,  if  you  may  not  go  into  the  hills  and 
study  your  plan  from  Nature  at  least  put  yourself 
in  the  right  mental  attitude  by  reading  some  of 
the  beautiful  stories  of  wild  woods  life  such  as  are 
written  by  Burroughs,  or  Mabie,  or  Van  Dyke,  and 
I  am  sure  your  results  will  be  far  more  satisfactory. 
Now  as  to  how,  and  where,  and  what  to  plant. 
When  it  is  considered  that  of  the  adiantum  alone 
there  are  over  eighty  species  and  that  of  the  three 
great  divisions  of  the  fern  family  there  are  hun- 


Ferns  and  Ferneries  199 

dreds  of  forms  known  as  decorative  plants,  it  would 
seem  that  a  choice  might  be  difficult,  but  in  Cali 
fornia  for  out-of-door  planting  the  selection  of 
ferns  for  a  fernery  may  be  summed  up  in  this 
way:  Avoid  so-called  hardy  Northern  ferns,  be 
cause  they  do  not  like  our  dry  air  and  have  too 
long  a  period  of  sleep.  On  the  contrary,  seek  for 
the  fern  of  tropical  or  warm  countries  and  help 
them  adapt  themselves  to  our  conditions. 

Now  all  ferns  like  about  the  same  treatment  in  a 
general  sort  of  way — leaf-mold,  loam  and  silver 
sand.  There  it  is  in  a  nutshell,  but,  as  you  know 
from  observing  the  habits  of  our  native  ferns,  some 
seek  shallow  soil  under  the  rocks,  some  like  a  little 
clay,  some  grow  on  the  edge  of  the  water,  while 
others  like  to  be  well  drained.  In  building  a  rock 
ery  for  ferns,  a  north  side  is  all  right,  but  there 
must  be  some  light,  as,  while  the  direct  rays  burn, 
yet  the  fern  must  have  warmth.  Avoid  sour  or 
heavy  soil.  Plenty  of  good  loam,  then  your  rocks, 
selected,  if  possible,  with  an  eye  to  their  artistic 
and  picturesque  arrangement ;  then,  after  building 
them  together,  scatter  your  mixture  of  loam  and 
leaf-mold  about  in  the  crevices,  and  place  your 
ferns.  AVind  is  not  desirable  any  more  than  sun, 
and,  of  course,  frost  must  be  provided  against. 

The  Japanese  fern-balls,  so  much  used  on  this 
coast,  are  of  the  Japanese  climbing  fern,  and  are 
gathered  from  the  trees  and  wound  about  balls  of 
moss.  No  one  in  this  country  has  been  really  suc 
cessful  in  imitating  the  Japanese  in  making  these 
balls.  Sometimes  the  Japs  get  overeager  to  get 
their  balls  to  market  and  do  not  let  them  lie  dor 
mant  long  enough,  and  then  the  florist  who  im- 


200  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

ports  them  has  many  complaints  registered  atiout 
the  poor  foliage  of  the  ball.  They  should  properly 
be  allowed  to  remain  dormant  from  October  to  Jan- 
ary  each  year,  and  in  this  way  can  be  used  for 
three  or  four  years  successfully.  When  received 
here  they  are  dormant,  and  require  about  six  weeks 
of  sprinkling  to  bring  them  to  perfection. 

I  have  seen  our  native  ferns  used  after  the  same 
manner  by  taking  the  roots,  carefully  washing 
from  them  all  the  sand,  then  binding  on  the  ex 
terior  of  an  "olla,"  or  Mexican  porous  water-jar. 
Use  a  black  thread  to  bind  with,  and  do  not  be  spar 
ing  of  the  roots.  The  natural  seepage  of  the  water 
through  the  porous  jar  will  soon  start  the  delicate 
green  and  your  cool  drink  will  taste  all  the  fresher 
and  cooler  for  the  suggestive  surroundings. — From 
"The  Garden  Book  of  California.'' 


THE  WHEAT 

BY  FRANK  NORBIS 

AN  hour  after  daylight  the  next  morning  the 
work  was  resumed.  After  breakfast  Van- 
amee,  riding  one  horse  and  leading  the  others,  had 
returned  to  the  line  of  ploughs  together  with  the 
other  drivers.  Now  he  was  busy  harnessing  the 
team.  At  the  division  blacksmith  shop — temporarily 
put  up — he  had  been  obliged  to  wait  while  one  of 
his  lead  horses  was  shod,  and  he  had  thus  Been  de 
layed  quite  five  minutes.  Nearly  all  the  other  teams 
were  harnessed,  the  drivers  on  their  seats,  waiting 
for  the  foreman's  signal. 


The  Wheat  201 

"All  ready  here?'*  inquired  the  foreman,  driv 
ing  up  to  Vanamee  's  team  in  his  buggy. 

"All  ready,  sir,"  answered  Vanamee,  buckling 
the  last  strap. 

He  climbed  to  his  seat,  shaking  out  the  reins, 
and,  turning  about,  looked  back  along  the  line,  then 
all  around  him  at  the  landscape  inundated  with 
the  brilliant  glow  of  the  early  morning. 

The  day  was  fine.  Since  the  first  rain  of  the  sea 
son  there  had  been  no  other.  Now  the  sky  was 
without  a  cloud,  pale  blue,  delicate  luminous,  scin 
tillating  with  morning.  The  great  brown  earth 
turned  a  huge  flank  to  it,  exhaling  the  moisture  of 
the  early  dew.  The  atmosphere,  washed  clean  of 
dust  and  mist,  was  translucent  as  crystal.  Far  off 
to  the  east  the  hills  on  the  other  side  of  Broderson 
Creek  stood  out  against  the  pallid  saffron  of  the 
horizon  as  flat  and  as  sharply  outlined  as  if  pasted 
on  the  sky.  The  campanile  of  the  ancient  Mission 
of  San  Juan  seemed  as  fine  as  frost  work.  All 
about  between  the  horizons  the  carpet  of  the  land 
unrolled  itself  to  infinity.  But  now  it  was  no 
longer  parched  with  heat,  cracked  and  warped  by 
a  merciless  sun,  powdered  with  dust.  The  rain 
had  done  its  work ;  not  a  clod  that  was  not  swollen 
with  fertility,  not  a  fissure  that  did  not  exhale  the 
sense  of  fecundity.  One  could  not  take  a  dozen 
steps  upon  the  ranches  without  the  brusque  sensa 
tion  that  under  foot  the  land  was  alive — roused  at 
last  from  its  sleep,  palpitating  with  the  desire  of 
reproduction. 

The  plows,  thirty-five  in  number,  each  drawn 
by  its  team  of  ten,  stretched  in  an  interminable 
line,  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  behind 


202  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

and  ahead  of  Vanamee.  They  were  arranged,  as 
it  were,  en  echelon,  not  in  file — not  one  directly  be 
hind  the  other,  but  each  succeeding  plow  its  own 
width  farther  in  the  field  than  the  one  in  front  of 
it.  Each  of  these  plows  held  five  shears,  so  that 
when  the  entire  company  was  in  motion,  one  hun 
dred  and  seventy-five  furrows  were  made  at  the 
same  instant.  At  a  distance  the  plows  resembled 
a  great  column  of  field  artillery.  Each  driver  was 
in  his  place,  his  glance  alternating  between  his 
horses  and  the  foreman  nearest  at  hand.  Other 
foremen,  in  their  buggies  or  buckboards,  were  at 
intervals  along  the  line,  like  battery  lieutenants. 
Annixter  himself,  on  horseback,  in  boots  and  cam 
paign  hat,  a  cigar  in  his  teeth,  overlooked  the 
scene. 

The  division  superintendent,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  line,  galloped  past  to  a  position  at  the 
head.  For  a  long  moment  there  was  a  silence.  A 
sense  of  preparedness  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the 
column.  All  things  were  ready,  each  man  in  his 
place.  The  day's  work  was  about  to  begin. 

Suddenly  from  a  distance  at  the  head  of  the  line 
came  the  shrill  trilling  of  a  whistle.  At  once  the 
foreman  nearest  Yanamee  repeated  it,  at  the  same 
time  turning  down  the  line  and  waving  one  arm. 
The  signal  was  repeated,  whistle  answering  whistle, 
till  the  sounds  lost  themselves  in  the  distance.  At 
once  the  line  of  plows  lost  its  immobility,  moving 
forward,  getting  slowly  under  way,  the  horses 
straining  in  the  traces.  A  prolonged  movement 
rippled  from  team  to  team,  disengaging  in  its  pass 
age  a  multitude  of  sounds — the  click  of  buckles, 
the  creak  of  straining  leather,  the  subdued  clash  of 


The  Wheat  203 

machinery,  the  cracking  of  whips,  the  deep  breath 
ing  of  nearly  four  hundred  horses,  the  abrupt  com 
mands  and  cries  of  the  drivers,  and  last  of  all  the 
prolonged,  soothing  murmur  of  the  thick,  brown 
earth  turning  steadily  from  the  multitude  of  ad 
vancing  shears. 

The  ploughing  thus  commenced  continued.  The 
sun  rose  higher.  Steadily  the  hundred  iron  hands 
kneaded  and  furrowed  and  stroked  the  brown, 
humid  earth,  the  hundred  iron  teeth  bit  deep  into 
the  Titan's  flesh.  Perched  on  his  seat,  the  moist 
living  reins  slipping  and  tugging  in  his  hands, 
Vanamee,  in  the  midst  of  this  steady  confusion  of 
constantly  varying  sensation,  sight  interrupted  by 
sound,  sound  mingling  with  sight,  on  this  swaying, 
vibrating  seat,  quivering  with  the  prolonged  thrill 
of  the  earth,  lapsed  to  a  sort  of  pleasing  numbness, 
in  a  sense  hypnotized  by  the  weaving  maze  of 
things  in  which  he  found  himself  involved.  To 
keep  his  team  at  an  even,  regular  gait,  maintaining 
the  precise  interval,  to  run  his  furrows  as  closely 
as  possible  to  those  already  made  by  the  plow  in 
front — this  for  the  moment  was  the  entire  sum  of 
his  duties. 

The  ploughing,  now  in  full  swing,  enveloped  him 
in  a  vague,  slow-moving  whirl  of  things.  Under 
neath  him  was  the  jarring,  jolting,  trembling  ma 
chine;  not  a  clod  was  turned,  not  an  obstacle  en 
countered,  that  he  did  not  receive  the  swift  im 
pression  of  it  through  all  his  body ;  the  very  friction 
of  the  damp  soil,  sliding  incessantly  from  the  shiny 
surface  of  the  shears,  seemed  to  reproduce  itself  in 
his  finger  tips  and  along  the  back  of  his  head.  He 
heard  the  horse  hoofs  by  the  myriads  crushing 


204  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

down  easily,  deeply  into  the  loam;  the  prolonged 
clinking  of  trace-chains ;  the  working  of  the  smooth, 
brown  flanks  in  the  harness ;  the  clatter  of  wooden 
hames ;  the  champing  of  bits ;  the  click  of  iron  shoes 
against  the  pebbles ;  the  brittle  stubble  of  the  sur 
face  ground  crackling  and  snapping  as  the  fur 
rows  turned ;  the  sonorous,  steady  breaths  wrenched 
from  the  deep-laboring  chests,  strap-bound,  shining 
with  sweat,  and  all  along  the  line  the  voices  of  the 
men  talking  to  the  horses.  Everywhere  there  were 
visions  of  glossy  brown  backs,  straining,  heaving, 
swollen  with  muscle;  harness  streaked  with  specks 
of  froth;  broad,  cup-shaped  hoofs  heavy  with 
.brown  loam;  men's  faces  red  with  tan;  blue  over 
alls  spotted  with  axle  grease;  muscled  hands,  the 
knuckles  whitened  in  their  grip  on  the  reins,  and 
through  it  all  the  ammoniacal  smell  of  the  horses, 
the  bitter  reek  of  perspiration  of  beasts  and  men, 
the  aroma  of  warm  leather,  the  scent  of  dead  stub 
ble — and,  stronger  and  more  penetrating  than  ev 
erything  else,  the  heavy,  enervating  odor  of  the  up 
turned,  living  earth. 

At  intervals,  from  the  tops  of  one  of  the  rare, 
low  swells  of  the  land,  Vanamee  overlooked  a 
wider  horizon.  On  the  other  divisions  of  Quien 
Sabe  the  same  work  was  in  progress.  Occasionally 
he  could  see  another  column  of  plows  in  an  adjoin 
ing  division — sometimes  so  close  at  hand  that  the 
subdued  murmur  of  its  movements  reached  his  ear ; 
sometimes  so  distant  that  it  resolved  itself  into  a 
long,  brown  streak  upon  the  gray  of  the  ground. 
Farther  off  to  the  west  on  the  Osterman  ranch 
other  columns  came  and  went,  and  once,  from  the 
crest  of  the  highest  swell  on  his  division,  Vanamee 


The  Wheat  205 

caught  a  distant  glimpse  of  the  Broderson  ranch. 
There,  too,  moving  specks  indicated  that  the  plow 
ing  was  under  way.  And  farther  away  still,  far 
off  there  beyond  the  fine  line  of  the  horizons  over 
the  curve  of  the  globe,  the  shoulder  of  the  earth, 
he  knew  were  other  ranches,  and  beyond  these  oth 
ers,  and  beyond  these  still  others,  the  immensities 
multiplying  to  infinity. 

Everywhere  throughout  the  great  San  Joaquin, 
unseen  and  unheard,  a  thousand  plows  up-stirred 
the  lands,  tens  of  thousands  of  shears  clutched  deep 
into  the  warm,  moist  earth. 

From  time  to  time  the  gang  in  which  Vanamee 
worked  halted  on  the  signal  from  foreman  or  over 
seer.  The  horses  came  to  a  standstill,  the  vague 
clamor  of  the  work  lapsed  away.  Then  the  minutes 
passed.  The  whole  work  hung  suspended.  All  up 
and  down  the  line  one  demanded  what  had  hap 
pened.  The  division  superintendent  galloped  past, 
perplexed  and  anxious.  For  the  moment  one  of 
the  plows  was  out  of  order,  a  bolt  had  slipped,  a 
lever  refused  to  work,  or  a  machine  had  become 
immobilized  in  heavy  ground,  or  a  horse  had  lamed 
himself.  Once,  even,  toward  noon,  an  entire  plow 
was  taken  out  of  line,  so  out  of  gear  that  a  mes 
senger  had  to  be  sent  to  the  division  forge  to  sum 
mon  the  machinist. 

At  half-past  twelve  Vanamee  and  the  rest  of  the 
drivers  ate  their  lunch  in  the  field,  the  tin  buckets 
having  been  distributed  to  them  that  morning  after 
breakfast.  But  in  the  evening  the  routine  of  the 
previous  day  was  repeated,  and  Vanamee,  unhar 
nessing  his  team,  riding  one  horse  and  leading  the 


206  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

others,  returned  to  the  division  barns  and  bunk- 
house. 

**#**#*# 

The  brown  earth,  smooth,  unbroken,  was  a  limit 
less,  mud-colored  ocean.  The  silence  was  profound. 
Then,  at  length,  Annixter's  searching  eye  made  out 
a  blur  on  the  horizon  to  the  northward;  the  blur 
concentrated  itself  to  a  speck;  the  speck  grew  by 
steady  degrees  to  a  spot,  slowly  moving,  a  note  of 
dull  color,  barely  darker  than  the  land,  but  an 
inky  black  silhouette  as  it  topped  a  low  rise  of 
ground  and  stood  for  a  moment  outlined  against 
the  pale  blue  of  the  sky.  Annixter  turned  his 
horse  from  the  road  and  rode  across  the  ranch  land 
to  meet  this  new  object  of  interest.  There  were 
horses  in  the  column.  At  first  glance  it  appeared 
as  if  there  were  nothing  else — a  riderless  squadron 
tramping  steadily  over  the  up-turned  plowed  land 
of  the  ranch.  But  it  drew  nearer.  The  horses 
were  in  lines,  six-abreast,  harnessed  to  machines. 
The  noise  increased;  defined  itself.  There  was  a 
shout  or  two;  occasionally  a  horse  blew  through 
his  nostrils  with  a  prolonged,  vibrating  snort.  The 
click  and  click  of  metal  work  was  incessant,  the 
machines  throwing  off  a  continual  rattle  of  wheels 
and  cogs  and  clashing  springs.  The  column  ap 
proached  nearer;  was  close  at  hand.  The  noises 
mingled  to  a  subdued  uproar,  a  bewildering  con 
fusion;  the  impact  of  innumerable  hoofs  was  a 
veritable  rumble.  Machine  after  machine  appeared, 
and  Annixter,  drawing  to  one  side,  remained  for 
nearly  ten  minutes  watching  and  interested,  while, 
like  an  array  of  chariots — clattering,  jostling, 
creaking,  clashing  an  interminable  procession,  ma- 


The  Wheat  207 

chine  succeeding  machine,  six-horse  team  succeed 
ing  six-horse  team — bustling,  hurried — Magnus 
Derrick's  thirty-three  grain  drills,  each  with  its 
eight  hoes,  went  clamoring  past,  like  an  advance 
of  military,  seeding  the  ten  thousand  acres  of  the 
great  ranch. 

When  the  drills  had  passed,  Annixter  turned 
and  rode  back  to  the  Lower  road,  over  the  land  now 
thick  with  seed.  Now  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
wait,  while  the  seed  silently  germinated;  nothing 

to  do  but  watch  for  the  wheat  to  come  up. 

******** 

Now  it  was  almost  day.  The  east  glowed  opales 
cent.  All  about  him  Annixter  saw  the  land  inun 
dated  with  light.  But  there  was  a  change.  Over 
night  something  had  occurred.  In  his  perturba 
tion  the  change  seemed  to  him,  at  first,  elusive, 
almost  fanciful,  unreal.  But  now,  as  the  light 
spread  he  looked  again  at  the  gigantic  scroll  of 
ranch  lands  unrolled  before  him  from  edge  to  edge 
of  the  horizon.  The  change  was  not  fanciful.  The 
change  was  real.  The  earth  was  no  longer  bare. 
The  land  was  no  longer  barren — no  longer  empty, 
no  longer  dull  brown.  All  at  once  Annixter  shouted 
aloud. 

There  it  was,  the  Wheat,  the  Wheat !  The  little 
seed,  long  planted,  germinating  in  the  deep,  dark 
furrows  of  the  soil,  straining,  swelling,  suddenly  in 
one  night  had  come  upward  to  the  light.  The  wheat 
had  come  up.  It  was  there  before  him,  around 
him,  everywhere,  illimitable,  immeasurable.  The 
winter  brownness  of  the  ground  was  overlaid  with 
a  little  shimmer  of  green.  The  promise  of  the 
sowing  was  being  fulfilled.  The  earth,  the  loyal 


208  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

mother,  who  never  failed,  who  never  disappointed, 
was  keeping  her  faith  again.  Once  more  the 
strength  of  nations  was  renewed.  Once  more  the 

force  of  the  world  was  revivified. 

******  *^ 

The  California  summer  lay  blanketwise  and 
smothering  over  all  the  land.  The  hills,  bone-dry, 
\vere  browned  and  parched.  The  grasses  and  wild- 
oats,  sear  and  yellow,  snapped  like  glass  filaments 
under  foot.  The  roads,  the  bordering  fences,  even 
the  lower  leaves  and  branches  of  the  trees,  were 
thick  and  gray  with  dust.  All  color  had  been 
burned  from  the  landscape,  except  in  the  irrigated 
patches,  that  in  the  waste  of  brown  and  dull  yel 
low  glowed  like  oases. 

The  wheat,  close  now  to  maturity,  had  turned 
from  pale  yellow  to  golden  yellow  and  from  that  to 
brown.  Like  a  gigantic  carpet  it  spread  itself 
over  all  the  land.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be 
seen  but  the  limitless  sea  of  wheat  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach;  dry,  rustling,  crisp  and  harsh  in  the 
rare  breaths  of  hot  winds  out  of  the  southeast — and 
now  the  harvesting  begins. 

The  sprocket  adjusted,  the  engineer  called  up 
the  gang  and  the  men  took  their  places.  The  fire 
man  stoked  vigorously,  the  two  sack-sewers  re 
sumed  their  posts  on  the  sacking  platform,  putting 
on  the  goggles  that  kept  the  chaff  from  their  eyes. 
The  separator-man  and  head-man  gripped  their 
levers. 

The  harvester,  shooting  a  column  of  thick  smoke 
straight  upward,  vibrating  to  the  top  of  the  stack, 
hissed,  clanked,  and  lurched  forward.  Instantly 
motion  sprang  to  life  in  all  its  component  parts; 


The  Wheat  209 

the  header  knives,  cutting  a  thirty-six  foot  swath, 
gnashed  like  teeth;  beltings  slid  and  moved  like 
smooth-flowing  streams ;  the  separator  whirred ;  the 
agitator  jarred  and  crashed;  cylinders,  augers, 
fans,  seeders  and  elevators,  drapers  and  chaff-car 
riers  clattered,  rumbled,  buzzed  and  clanged.  The 
steam  hissed  and  rasped;  the  ground  reverberated 
a  hollow  note,  and  the  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  wheat  stalks,  sliced  and  slashed  in  the  clashing 
shears  of  the  header,  rattled  like  dry  rushes  in  a 
hurricane,  as  they  fell  inward  and  were  caught  up 
by  an  endless  belt,  to  disappear  into  the  bowels  of 
the  vast  brute  that  devoured  them. 

Without  an  instant's  pause,  a  thick  rivulet  of 
wheat  rolled  and  dashed  tumultuous  into  the  sack. 
In  half  a  minute — sometimes  in  twenty  seconds — the 
sack  was  full,  was  passed  over  to  the  second  sewer, 
the  mouth  reeved  up  and  the  sack  dumped  out  upon 
the  ground,  to  be  picked  up  by  the  wagons  and 
hauled  to  the  railroad. 

All  that  shrieking,  bellowing  machinery,  all  that 
gigantic  organism,  all  the  months  of  labor,  the 
plowing,  the  planting,  the  prayers  for  rain,  the 
years  of  preparation,  the  heartaches,  the  anxiety, 
the  foresight,  all  the  whole  business  of  the  ranch, 
the  work  of  the  horses,  of  steam,  of  men  and  boys, 
looked  to  this  spot — the  grain  chute  from  the  har 
vester  into  the  sacks.  Its  volume  was  the  index  of 
failure  or  success,  of  riches  or  poverty.  At  this 
point  the  labor  of  the  rancher  ended.  Here  at  the 
lip  of  the  chute,  he  parted  company  with  his  grain, 
and  from  here  the  wheat  streamed  forth  to  feed  the 
world.  The  yawning  mouths  of  the  sacks  might 
well  stand  for  the  unnumbered  mouths  of  the  peo- 


210  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

pie,  all  agape  for  food ;  and  here,  into  these  sacks, 
at  first  so  lean,  so  flaccid,  attenuated  like  starved 
stomachs,  rushed  the  living  stream  of  food,  insist 
ent,  interminable,  filling  the  empty,  fattening  the 
shriveled,  making  it  sleek  and  heavy  and  solid. — 
From  "The  Octopus." 


NIGHTTIME  IN  CALIFORNIA 

BY  A.  J.  WATERHOUSE 

XTIGHTTIME   in   California.     There's  nothing 

I  ^«     like  it  found, 

Though  to  and  fro  you  come  and  go  and  journey 

earth  around. 
The  skies  are  like  a  crystal  sea,  with  islands  made 

of  stars; 
The  moon's  a  fairy  ship  that  sails  among  its  shoals 

and  bars ; 
And  on  that  sea  I  sit  and  look,  and  wonder  where 

it  ends; 
If  I  shall  sail  its  phantom  wave,  and  where  the 

journey  tends, 
And  if — in  vain  I  wonder;  let's  change  the  solemn 

theme, 
For  the  nights  of  California  were  made  for  man  to 

dream. 

Nighttime  in  California.  The  cricket's  note  is 
heard, 

And  now,  perhaps,  the  twitter  of  a  drowsy,  dream 
ing  bird. 


Nighttime  in  California  211 

An  oar  is  plashing  yonder;  the  wakeful  frogs  re- 

piy- 

The  breeze  is  chanting  in  the  trees  a  ghostly  lul 
laby. 

The  moon  has  touched  with  silver  the  peaceful, 
sleeping  world, 

And  in  the  weary  soul  of  man  the  flag  of  sorrow's 
furled. 

'Tis  a  time  for  smiles  and  music;  'tis  a  time  for 
love  divine, 

For  the  nights  of  California  are  Heav'n  this  side 
the  line. 

Nighttime  in  California.  Elsewhere  men  only 
guess 

At  the  glory  of  the  evenings  that  are  perfect — 
nothing  less; 

But  here  the  nights,  returning,  are  the  wondrous 
gifts  of  God— 

As  if  the  days  were  maidens  fair  with  golden  slip 
pers  shod. 

There  is  no  cloud  to  hide  the  sky;  the  universe  is 
ours, 

And  the  starlight  likes  to  look  and  laugh  in  Cupid- 
haunted  bowers. 

Oh,  the  restful,  peaceful  evenings!  In  them  my 
soul  delights, 

For  God  loved  California  when  He  gaves  to  her 
her  nights. 

—From  "Some  Homely  Little  Songs. " 


212  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

A  SON  OF  COPPER  SIN 

BY  HERMAN  WHITAKER 

WITHIN  his  bulPs-hide  tepee,  old  Iz-le-roy  lay 
and  fed  his  little  fire,  stick  by  stick.  He 
was  sick,  very  sick — sick  with  the  sickness  which  is 
made  up  of  equal  parts  of  hunger,  old  age,  fever 
and  despair.  Just  one  week  before  his  tribe  had 
headed  up  for  Winnipegoos,  where  the  whitefish 
may  be  had  for  the  taking  and  the  moose  winter 
in  their  yards.  But  a  sick  man  may  not  travel  the 
long  trail,  so  Iz-le-roy  had  remained  at  White 
Man's  Lake.  And  Batiste,  his  son,  stayed  also. 
Not  that  it  was  expected  of  him,  for,  according  to 
forest  law,  the  man  who  cannot  hunt  had  better 
die;  but  Batiste  had  talked  with  the  gentle  priest 
of  Ellice,  and  had  chosen  to  depart  from  the  cus 
tom  of  his  fathers. 

And  things  had  gone  badly,  very  badly,  since 
the  tribe  had  marched.  North,  south,  east  and 
west,  the  round  of  the  plains,  and  through  the  leaf 
less  woods,  the  boy  had  hunted  without  as  much  as 
a  jack-rabbit  falling  to  his  gun.  For  two  days  no 
food  had  passed  their  lips,  and  now  he  was  gone 
forth  to  do  that  which  Iz-le-roy  had  almost  rather 
die  than  have  him  do — ask  aid  of  the  settlers. 

"Yea,  my  son,"  the  old  warrior  had  faltered, 
"these  be  they  that  stole  the  prairies  of  our  fath 
ers.  Yet  it  may  be  that  Big  Laugh,  best  of  an  evil 
brood,  will  give  us  of  his  store  of  flour  and  bacon. " 

So,  after  placing  a  plentiful  stock  of  wood  close 


[By  permission  of  Messrs.' Harper  &  Brothers.] 


A  Son  of  Copper  Sin  213 

to  the  old  man's  hand,  Batiste  had  closed  the  tepee 
flap  and  laced  it.  At  the  end  of  an  hour's  fast 
walking,  during  which  the  northern  sky  grew  dark 
with  the  threat  of  still  more  cruel  weather,  he 
sighted  through  the  drift  a  spurting  column  of 
smoke. 

The  smoke  marked  the  cabin  of  John  Sterling, 
and  also  his  present  occupation.  AVithin,  John  sat 
and  fired  the  stove,  while  Avis,  his  daughter,  set 
out  the  breakfast  dishes,  and  his  wife  turned  the 
sizzling  bacon  in  the  pan. 

"I  declare,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  pausing, 
knife  in  hand,  ''if  that  bread  ain't  froze  solid!" 

"Cold  last  night,"  commented  Sterling.  "Put 
it  in  the  oven,  Mary." 

As  she  stooped  to  obey,  the  door  quietly  opened 
and  Batiste  slipped  in.  His  moose  moccasins  made 
no  noise,  and  he  was  standing  close  beside  her  when 
she  straightened.  She  jumped  and  gasped : 

"Lor'  'a'  mercy!  How  you  do  scare  one!  AVhy 
don 't  you  knock  ? ' ' 

Batiste  stared.  It  was  the  custom  of  his  tribe 
thus  to  enter  a  house — a  custom  established  before 
jails  were  built  or  locks  invented.  His  eye  there 
fore  roamed  questioningly  from  one  to  another  un 
til  Sterling  asked : 

"\Yhat  d'  want,  young  fellow?" 

Batiste  pointed  to  the  frying-pan.  "Ba-kin!" 
he  muttered.  "The  ba-kin  of  Big  Laugh,  I  want. 
Iz-le-roy  sick,  plenty  sick.  Him  want  flour,  him 
want  ba-kin." 

The  thought  of  his  father's  need  flashed  into  his 
mind,  and,  realizing  the  impossibility  of  expressing 
himself  in  English,  he  broke  into  a  voluble  stream 
15 


214  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

of  Cree,  punctuating  its  rolling  gutterals  with  en 
ergetic  signs.  While  he  was  speaking,  Avis  ceased 
rattling  her  dishes. 

"He  looks  awfully  hungry,  dad,"  she  whispered 
as  Batiste  finished. 

Now,  though  Sterling  was  a  large-souled,  gener 
ous  man,  and  jovial — as  evidenced  by  his  name  of 
Big  Laugh — it  happened  that,  during  the  past  sum 
mer,  a  roving  band  of  Sioux  had  camped  hard  by 
and  begged  him  out  of  patience.  That  morning, 
too,  the  threatening  weather  had  spoiled  an  in 
tended  trip  to  Russel  and  touched  his  temper — of 
which  he  had  a  goodly  share. 

"Can't  help  it,  girl,"  he  snapped.  "If  we  feed 
every  hungry  Injun  that  comes  along,  we'll  soon 
be  out  of  house  and  home.  Can't  do  anything  for 
you,  boy." 

"Him  want  ba-kin,"  Batiste  said. 

' '  Well,  you  can  just  want. ' ' 

"Iz-le-roy  sick,  him  want  ba-kin,"  the  boy 
pleaded. 

His  persistence  irritated  Sterling,  and,  crowding 
down  the  better  feeling  which  spoke  for  the  lad,  he 
sprang  up,  threw  wide  the  door,  and  shouted : 

"Get,  you  son  of  copper  sin !  Get,  now !  Quick ! ' ' 

"Father!"  pleaded  the  girl. 

But  he  took  no  heed,  and  held  wide  the  door. 

Into  Batiste's  face  flashed  surprise,  anger  and 
resentment.  Surprise,  because  he  had  not  believed 
all  the  things  Iz-le-roy  had  told  him  of  the  white 
men,  but  had  preferred  to  think  them  all  like 
Father  Francis.  But  now  ?  His  father  was  right. 
They  were  all  cold  and  merciless,  their  hearts  hard 
as  their  steel  ax-beads,  their  tongues  sharp  as  the 


A  Son  of  Copper  Sin  215 

cutting  edge.  With  head  held  high  he  marched 
through  the  door,  away  from  the  hot  stove,  the 
steaming  coffee,  and  the  delicious  smell  of  frying 
bacon,  out  into  the  cold  storm. 

"Oh,  father!"  remonstrated  his  wife  as  Sterling 
closed  the  door. 

"Look  here,  Mary,"  he  answered  testily.  "We 
fed  a  whole  tribe  last  summer,  didn't  we?" 

"But  this  lad  don't  belong  to  them,"  she 
pleaded. 

"All  the  worse,"  he  rejoined.  "Do  an  Injun  a 
good  turn  an'  he  never  forgets.  Give  him  his 
breakfast,  an'  he  totes  his  tribe  along  to  dinner." 

"Well,"  sighed  the  good  woman,  "I'm  real 
sorry. ' ' 

For  a  few  moments  both  were  silent.  And  pre 
sently,  as  the  man 's  kindly  nature  began  to  triumph 
over  his  irritation,  he  hitched  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
Already  he  felt  ashamed.  Casting  a  sheepish 
glance  at  his  wife,  he  rose,  walked  to  the  door,  and 
looked  out.  But  a  wall  of  whirling  white  blocked 
his  vision — Batiste  was  gone  beyond  recall. 

"Where's  Avis?"  he  asked,  returning  to  the 
stove. 

"A- vis!"  called  her  mother. 

But  there  was  no  answer.  For  a  moment  man 
and  wife  stared  each  other  in  the  eye ;  then,  moved 
by  a  common  impulse,  they  walked  into  the  kitchen. 
There,  on  the  table,  lay  the  half  of  a  fresh-cut  side 
of  bacon ;  the  bread-box  was  open  and  a  crusty  loaf 
missing ;  the  girl 's  shawl  was  gone  from  its  peg  and 
her  overshoes  from  their  corner. 

"Good  God!"  gasped  the  settler.    "The  child's 

gone  after  him!" 
16 


216  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

They  knew  the  risk.  All  the  morning  the  storm 
had  been  brewing,  and  now  it  thundered  by,  a 
veritable  blizzard.  The  blizzard !  King  of  storms ! 
It  compels  the  settler  to  string  a  wire  from  house 
to  stables,  it  sets  men  to  circling  in  the  snow,  it 
catches  little  children  coming  home  from  school 
and  buries  them  in  its  monstrous  drifts. 

Without  another  word  Sterling  wound  a  scarf 
about  his  neck,  grabbed  his  badger  mitts,  and 
rushed  outside. 

When  Avis  softly  closed  the  kitchen  door  she 
could  just  see  Batiste  rounding  a  bluff  that  lay  a 
furlong  west  of  her  father's  stables.  She  started 
after  him ;  but  by  the  time  she  had  covered  half  the 
distance  a  sea  of  white  swept  in  between  and  blot 
ted  him  from  view. 

She  struggled  on,  and  on,  and  still  on,  until,  in 
spite  of  the  seventy  degrees  of  frost,  the  perspira 
tion  burst  from  every  pore  and  the  scud  melted  on 
her  glowing  face.  This  was  well  enough — so  long 
as  she  kept  moving;  but  when  the  time  came  that 
she  must  stop,  she  would  freeze  all  the  quicker  for 
her  present  warmth. 

This,  being  born  and  bred  of  the  prairie,  Avis 
knew,  and  the  knowledge  kept  her  toiling,  toiling 
on,  until  her  tired  legs  and  leaden  feet  compelled  a 
pause  in  the  shelter  of  a  bluff.  She  was  hungry, 
too.  All  this  time  she  carried  the  bread  and  meat, 
and  now,  unconscious  of  a  pair  of  slant  eyes  which 
glared  from  a  willow  thicket,  she  broke  the  loaf  and 
began  to  eat.  While  she  ate,  the  green  lights  in  the 
eyes  flared  brighter,  a  long  red  tongue  licked  the 
drool  from  grinning  jaws,  and  forth  from  his  cov 
ert  stole  a  lank,  gray  wolf. 


A  Son  of  Copper  Sin  217 

Avis  littered  a  startled  cry.  This  was  no  coyote, 
to  be  chased  with  a  stick,  but  a  wolf  of  timber 
stock,  a  great  beast,  heavy,  prick-eared,  strong 
as  a  mastiff.  His  nose  puckered  in  a  wicked  snarl 
as  he  slunk  in  half-circles  across  her  front.  He 
was  undecided.  So,  while  he  circled,  trying  to 
make  up  his  mind,  drawing  a  little  nearer  at  every 
turn,  Avis  fell  back — back  towards  the  bluff,  keep 
ing  her  white  face  always  to  the  creeping  beast. 

It  was  a  small  bluff,  lacking  a  tree  large  enough 
to  climb,  but  sufficient  for  her  purpose.  On  its  edge 
she  paused,  threw  the  bacon  to  the  wolf,  and  then 
ran  desperately.  Once  clear  of  the  scrub,  she  ran 
on,  plunging  through  drifts,  stumbling,  falling,  to 
rise  again  and  push  her  flight.  Of  direction  she 
took  no  heed;  her  only  thought  was  to  place  dis 
tance  between  herself  and  the  red-mouthed  brute. 
But  when,  weary  and  breathless,  she  paused  for 
rest,  out  of  the  drab  drift  stole  the  lank,  gray 
shadow. 

The  brute  crouched  a  few  yards  away,  licking 
his  sinful  lips,  winking  his  devil  eyes.  She  still 
had  the  loaf.  As  she  threw  it,  the  wolf  sprang  and 
snapped  it  in  mid-air.  Then  she  ran,  and  ran,  and 
ran,  as  the  tired  doe  runs  from  the  hounds.  For 
what  seemed  to  her  an  interminable  time,  though 
it  was  less  than  five  minutes,  she  held  on;  then 
stopped,  spent,  unable  to  take  another  step.  Look 
ing  back,  she  saw  nothing  of  the  wolf;  but  just 
when  she  began  to  move  slowly  forward,  thinking 
he  had  given  up  the  chase,  a  grap  shape  loomed 
right  ahead. 

Uttering  a  bitter  cry,  she  turned  once  more,  tot 
tered  a  few  steps,  and  fainted. 


218  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

As,  wildly  calling  his  daughter's  name,  Sterling 
rushed  by  his  stables,  the  wind  smote  him  with  tre 
mendous  power.  Like  a  living  thing  it  buffeted 
him  about  the  ears,  tore  at  his  breath,  poured  over 
him  an  avalanche  of  snow.  Still  he  pressed  on 
and  gained  the  bluff  which  Avis  missed. 

As  he  paused  to  draw  a  free  breath,  his  eye 
picked  out  a  fresh-made  track.  Full  of  a  sudden 
hope,  he  shouted.  A  voice  answered,  and  as  he 
rushed  eagerly  forward  a  dark  figure  came  through 
the  drift  to  meet  him.  It  was  Batiste. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

Sterling  was  cruelly  disappointed,  but  he  ans 
wered  quickly :  ' '  You  see  my  girl  ?  Yes,  my  girl, ' ' 
he  repeated,  noting  the  lad's  look  of  wonder. 
"Young  white  squaw,  you  see  um?" 

"Mooniah  papoose?"  queried  Batiste. 

"Yes,  yes!  She  follow  you.  Want  give  you 
bread,  want  give  you  bacon.  All  gone,  all  lost!" 
Sterling  finished  with  a  despairing  gesture. 

"Squaw  marche  to  me?  Ba-kin  for  me?"  ques 
tioned  Batiste. 

"Yes,  yes!"  crief  Sterling,  in  a  flurry  of  impa 
tience. 

"I  find  urn,"  he  said,  softly. 

Briefly  Batiste  laid  down  his  plan,  eking  out  his 
scanty  English  with  vivid  signs.  In  snow,  the 
white  man  rolls  along  like  a  clumsy  buffalo,  plant 
ing  his  feet  far  out  to  the  right  and  left.  And  be 
cause  his  right  leg  steps  a  little  further  than  the 
left,  he  always,  when  lost,  .travels  in  a  circle. 
Wherefore  Batiste  indicated  that  they  should  move 
along  parallel  lines,  just  shouting  distance  apart, 
so  as  to  cover  the  largest  possible  ground. 


A  Son  of  Copper  Sin  219 

"Young  squaw  marche  slow.  She  there!"  He 
pointed  north  and  east  with  a  gesture.  "Yes, 
there!" 

Batiste  paused  until  Sterling  got  his  distance; 
then,  keeping  the  wind  slanting  to  his  left  cheek, 
he  moved  off  north  and  east.  Ever  and  anon  he 
stopped  to  give  forth  a  piercing  yell.  If  Sterling 
answered,  he  moved  on ;  if  not — as  happened  twice 
— he  traveled  in  his  direction  until  they  were  once 
more  in  touch.  And  so,  shouting  and  yelling,  they 
bore  off  north  and  east  for  a  long  half-hour. 

After  that,  Batiste  began  to  throw  his  cries  both 
east  and  west,  for  he  judged  that  they  must  be 
closing  on  the  girl.  And  suddenly,  from  the  north, 
came  a  weird,  tremulous  answer.  He  started,  and 
throwing  up  his  head,  emitted  the  wolf's  long  howl. 
Leaning  forward,  he  waited — his  very  soul  in  his 
ears — until,  shrill  yet  deep-chested  and  quivering 
with  ferocity,  came  back  the  answering  howl. 

No  coyote  gave  forth  that  cry,  and  Batiste 
knew  it. 

"Timber  wolf!"  he  muttered. 

Turning  due  north,  he  gave  the  settler  a  warning 
yell,  then  sped  like  a  hunted  deer  in  the  direction 
of  the  cry.  He  ran  with  the  long,  lithe  lope  which 
tires  down  even  the  swift  elk,  and  in  five  minutes 
covered  nearly  a  mile.  Once  more  he  gave  forth 
the  wolf  howl.  An  answer  came  from  close  Hy,  but 
as  he  sprang  forward  it  ended  with  a  frightened 
yelp.  Through  a  break  in  the  drift  he  spied  a 
moving  figure ;  then  a  swirl  swept  in  and  blotted  it 
from  view. 

But  he  had  seen  the  girl.    A  dozen  leaps  and  he 


220  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

was  close  upon  her.    Just  as  he  opened  his  mouth 
to  speak,  she  screamed  and  plunged  headlong. 

When  consciousness  returned,  Avis  was  lying  in 
her  own  bed.  Her  mother  bent  over  her ;  Sterling 
stood  near  by.  All  around  were  the  familiar  things 
of  life,  but  her  mind  still  retained  a  vivid  picture 
of  her  flight,  and  she  sprang  up  screaming : 

"The  wolf;  oh,  the  wolf !" 

1 '  Hush,  dearie, ' '  her  mother  soothed.  ( '  It  wasn  't 
a  wolf,  but  just  the  Cree  boy. ' ' 

Batiste  had  told  how  she  screamed  at  the  sight 
of  his  gray,  snow-covered  blanket,  and  the  cry  had 
carried  even  to  her  father.  But  when  she  recov 
ered  sufficiently  to  tell  her  story,  the  father  shud 
dered  and  the  mother  exclaimed : 

''John,  we  owe  that  boy  more  than  we  can  ever 
pay!" 

"We  do!'-?  he  fervently  agreed. 

Just  then  the  latch  of  the  other  door  clicked,  and 
a  cold  blast  streamed  into  the  bedroom.  Jumping 
up,  the  mother  cried : 

"Run,  John;  he's  going !" 

"Here,  young  fellow!''  shouted  the  settler. 

Batiste  paused  in  the  doorway,  his  hand  on  the 
latch,  his  slight  body  silhouetted  against  the  white 
of  the  storm. 

"Where  you  going,  boy?" 

"To  Iz-le-roy,"  he  answered.  "Him  sick. 
Bezhou!" 

Sterling  strode  forward  and  caught  him  by  the 
shoulder.  "No,  you  don't,"  he  said — "not  that 
way."  Then,  turning,  he  called  into  the  bedroom: 
"Here,  mother!  Get  out  all  your  wraps  while  I 


October  Clouds  221 

hitch  the  ponies.     And  fix  up  our  best  bed  for  a 
sick  man."— From  "The  Probationer." 


w 


OCTOBER  CLOUDS 

BY  MABY  B.  WILLIAMS 

ITH  fold  on  fold  in  quiet  rest 

The  gray  clouds  lie  along  the  west — 

In  sweet  repose  they  lie, 
While  overhead  they  sail  away 
Like  phantom  ships  on  a  placid  bay — 
Like  ships  they  sail  on  high. 

And  in  and  out  through  rifts  of  blue, 
The  gray  ships  tipped  in  silver  hue, 

Now  idly  float  along ; 
And  tiny  clouds  in  northern  sky 
Like  flocks  of  birds  prepared  to  fly 

To  southland,  home  of  song. 

And  herd  on  herd  in  glowing  east, 
With  here  and  there  a  straggling  beast, 

0  'er  pastures  blue  they  rove ; 
Their  shining  sides  are  flecked  with  gold. 
They  number  o  'er  a  thousand  fold — 

A  countless  herd  they  move. 

And  in  the  south  white  domes  arise, 
Cathedral  spires  pierce  the  skies, 

And  hanging  gardens  fair, 
And  palaces  in  grandeur  stand 
In  ether  blue  above  the  land — 

My  castles  in  the  air. 


222  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

But  what  are  all  these  visions  grand, 
Unless  I  see  the  Pilot's  hand, 

That  sails  my  cloud-ships  by, 
Or  folds  them  on  the  mountain  crest, 
And  keeps  them  there  at  perfect  rest, 

Along  the  western  sky  ? 


HUMMEBS 

BY  FLORENCE  A.  MERRIAM 

CALIFORNIA  is  the  land  of  flowers  and  hum 
ming-birds.  Humming-birds  are  there  the 
winged  companions  of  the  flowers.  In  the  valleys 
the  airy  bird  hovers  about  the  filmy  golden  mustard 
and  the  sweet-scented  primroses;  on  the  blooming 
hillsides  in  spring  the  air  is  filled  with  whirring 
wings  and  piping  voices,  as  the  fairy  troops  pass 
and  repass  at  their  mad  gambols.  At  one  moment 
the  birds  are  circling  methodically  around  the 
whorls  of  the  blue  sage;  at  the  next  hurtling 
through  the  air  after  a  distant  companion.  The 
great  wild  gooseberry  bushes  with  red  fuchsia-like 
flowers  are  like  beehives,  swarming  with  noisy 
hummers.  The  whizzing  and  whirring  lead  one  to 
the  bushes  from  a  distance,  and  on  approaching 
one  is  met  by  the  brown  spindle-like  birds,  darting 
out  from  the  blooming  shrubs,  gleams  of  gold, 
green  and  scarlet  glancing  from  their  gorgets. 

The  large  brown  hummers  probably  stop  in  the 
valley  only  on  their  way  north,  but  the  little  black- 
chinned  ones  make  their  home  there,  and  the  big 
spreading  sycamores  and  the  great  live  oaks  are 


Hummers  223 

their  nesting  grounds.  In  the  big  oak  beside  the 
ranch  house  I  have  seen  two  or  three  nests  at  once ; 
and  a  ring  of  live  oaks  in  front  of  the  house  held  a 
complement  of  nests.  From  the  hammock  under 
the  oak  beside  the  house  one  could  watch  the  birds 
at  their  work.  If  the  front  door  was  left  open,  the 
hummers  would  sometimes  fly  inside;  and  as  we 
stepped  out  they  often  darted  away  from  the  flow 
ers  growing  under  the  windows. 

California  is  the  best  of  all  places  to  study  hum 
ming-birds.  The  only  drawback  is  that  there  are 
always  too  many  other  birds  to  watch  at  the  same 
time;  but  one  sees  enough  to  want  to  see  more.  I 
never  saw  a  humming-bird  courtship,  unless — per 
haps  one  performance  I  saw  was  part  of  the  woo 
ing.  I  was  sitting  on  Mountain  Billy  under  the  lit 
tle  lover's  sycamore  when  a  buzzing  and  whirring 
sounded  overhead.  On  a  twig  sat  a  wee  green  lady 
and  before  her  was  her  lover  ( ? ) ,  who,  with  the 
sound  and  regularity  of  a  spindle  in  a  machine, 
swung  shuttling  from  side  to  side  in  an  arc  less 
than  a  yard  long.  He  never  turned  around,  or  took 
his  eyes  off  his  lady's,  but  threw  himself  back  at 
the  end  of  his  line  b*y  a  quick  spread  of  his  tail. 
She  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and  as  he 
moved  from  side  to  side  her  long  bill  followed  him 
in  a  very  droll  way.  When  through  with  his  dance 
he  looked  at  her  intently,  as  if  to  see  what  effect 
his  performance  had  had  upon  her.  She  made  some 
remark,  apparently  not  to  his  liking,  for  when  he 
had  answered  he  flew  away.  She  called  after  him, 
but  as  he  did  not  return  she  stretched  herself  and 
flew  up  on  a  twig  above  with  an  amusing  air  of  re 
lief. 


224  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

This  is  all  I  have  ever  seen  of  the  courtship ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  nest-building,  I  have  often  been 
an  eyewitness  to  that.  One  little  acquaintance 
made  a  nest  of  yellow  down  and  put  it  among  the 
green  oak  leaves,  making  me  think  that  the  laws  of 
protective  coloration  had  no  weight  with  her,  but 
before  the  eggs  were  laid  she  had  neatly  covered 
the  yellow  with  flakes  of  green  lichen.  I  found  her 
one  day  sitting  in  the  sun  with  the  top  of  her  head 
as  white  as  though  she  had  been  diving  into  the 
flour  barrel.  Here  was  one  of  the  wonderful  cases 
of  "mutual  help"  in  nature.  The  flowers  supply 
insects  and  honey  to  the  humming-birds,  and  they, 
in  turn,  as  they  fly  from  blossom  to  blossom,  prob 
ing  the  tubes  with  the  long  slender  bills  that  have 
gradually  come  to  fit  the  shape  of  the  tubes,  brush 
off  the  pollen  of  one  blossom  to  carry  it  on  to  the 
next,  so  enabling  the  plants  to  perfect  their  flowers 
as  they  could  not  do  without  help.  It  is  said  that, 
in  proportion  to  their  numbers,  humming-birds  as 
sist  as  much  as  insects  in  the  work  of  cross-fertiliza 
tion. 

Though  this  little  hummer  that  I  was  watching 
let  me  come  within  a  few  feet  of  her,  when  a  lizard 
ran  under  her  bush  she  craned  her  neck  and 
looked  over  her  shoulder  at  him  with  surprising  in 
terest.  She  doubtless  recognized  him  as  one  of  her 
egg-eating  enemies,  on  which  account  she  put  her 
nest  at  the  tip  of  a  twig  too  slender  to  serve  as  a 
ladder. 

Another  humming-bird  who  built  across  the  way 
was  still  more  trustful — with  people.  I  used  to  sit 
leaning  against  the  trunk  of  her  oak  and  watch  the 
nest,  which  was  near  the  tip  of  one  of  the  long 


Hummers  225 

swinging  branches  that  drooped  over  the  trail. 
When  the  tiny  worker  was  at  home,  a  yard-stick 
would  almost  measure  the  distance  between  us.  As 
she  sat  on  her  nest  she  sometimes  turned  her  head 
to  look  down  at  the  dog  lying  beside  me,  and  often 
hovered  over  us  on  going  away. 

The  nest  was  saddled  on  a  twig  and  glued  to  a 
glossy,  dark  green  oak  leaf.  Like  the  other  nest, 
it  was  made  of  a  yellow,  spongy  substance,  prob 
ably  down  from  the  underside  of  sycamore  leaves ; 
and  like  it,  also,  the  outside  was  coated  with  lichen 
and  wound  with  cobweb.  The  bird  was  a  rapid 
worker,  buzzing  in  with  her  material  and  then 
buzzing  off  after  more.  Once  I  saw  the  cobweb 
hanging  from  her  needle-like  bill,  and  thought  she 
probably  had  been  tearing  down  the  beautiful  sus 
pension  bridges  the  spiders  hang  from  tree  to  tree. 

It  was  very  interesting  to  see  her  work.  She 
would  light  on  the  rim  of  the  nest,  or  else  drop  di 
rectly  into  the  tiny  cup,  and  place  her  material 
with  the  end  of  her  long  bill.  It  looked  like  try 
ing  to  sew  at  arm's  length.  She  had  to  draw  back 
her  head  in  order  not  to  reach  beyond  the  nest. 
How  much  more  convenient  it  would  have  been  if 
her  bill  had  been  jointed !  It  seemed  better  suited 
to  probing  flower  tubes  than  making  nests.  But 
then,  she  made  nests  only  in  the  spring,  while  she 
fed  from  flowers  all  the  year  round,  and  so  could 
afford  to  stretch  her  neck  a  trifle  one  month  for  the 
sake  of  having  a  good,  long  fly-spear  during  the 
other  eleven.  The  peculiar  feature  of  her  work  was 
her  quivering  motion  in  moulding.  When  her  ma 
terial  was  placed  she  moulded  her  nest  like  a  pot 
ter,  twirling  around  against  the  sides,  sometimes 


226  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

pressing  so  hard  she  ruffled  up  the  feathers  of  her 
breast.  She  shaped  her  cup  as  if  it  were  a  piece 
of  clay.  To  round  the  outside  she  would  sit  on  the 
rim  and  lean  over,  smoothing  the  sides  with  her 
bill,  often  with  the  same  peculiar  tremulous  mo 
tion.  When  working  on  the  outside,  at  times  she 
almost  lost  her  balance,  and  fluttered  to  keep  from 
falling.  To  turn  around  in  the  nest,  she  lifted 
herself  by  whirring  her  wings. 

When  she  found  a  bit  of  her  green  lichen  aBout 
to  fall,  she  took  the  loose  end  in  her  bill  and  drew 
it  over  the  edge  of  the  nest,  fastening  it  securely 
inside.  She  looked  very  wise  and  motherly  as  she 
sat  there  at  work,  preparing  a  home  for  her  brood. 
After  building  rapidly  she  would  take  a  short  rest 
on  a  twig  in  the  sun,  while  she  plumed  her  feathers. 
She  made  nest-making  seem  very  pleasant  work. 

One  day,  wanting  to  experiment,  I  put  a  handful 
of  oak  leaves  on  the  nest.  They  covered  the  cup 
and  hung  down  over  the  sides.  When  the  small 
builder  came,  she  hovered  over  it  a  few  seconds  be 
fore  making  up  her  mind  how  it  got  there  and  what 
she  had  better  do  about  it.  Then  she  calmly  lit  on 
top  of  it !  Part  of  it  went  off  as  she  did  so,  but  the 
rest  she  appropriated,  fastening  in  the  loose  ends 
with  the  cobweb  she  had  brought. 

She  often  gave  a  little  squeaky  call  when  on  the 
nest  as  if  talking  to  herself  about  her  work.  When 
going  off  for  material  she  would  dart  away  and 
then,  as  if  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she  did 
not  know  where  she  was  going,  would  stop  and 
stand  perfectly  still  in  the  air,  her  vibrating  wings 
sustaining  her  till  she  made  up  her  mind,  when  she 
would  shoot  off  at  an  angle.  It  seemed  as  if  she 


Hummers  227 

would  be  worn  out  before  night,  but  her  eyes  were 
bright  and  she  looked  vigorous  enough  to  build 
half  a  dozen  houses. 

"There's  odds  in  folks,"  our  great-grandmothers 
used  to  say;  and  there  certainly  is  in  bird  folks; 
even  in  the  ways  of  the  same  one  at  different  times. 
Now,  this  humming-bird  was  content  to  build  right 
in  front  of  my  eyes,  and  the  hummer  down  at  the 
little  lover's  tree,  with  her  first  nest,  was  so  indif 
ferent  to  Billy  and  me  that  I  took  no  pains  to 
keep  at  a  distance  or  disguise  the  fact  that  I  was 
watching  her.  But  when  her  nest  was  destroyed 
she  suddenly  grew  old  in  the  ways  of  the  world, 
and  apparently  repented  having  trusted  us.  In 
any  case,  I  got  a  lesson  on  being  too  prying.  The 
first  nest  had  not  been  down  long  before  I  found 
that  a  second  one  was  being  built  a  few  feet  away 
— by  the  same  bird  ?  I  imagined  so.  The  nest  was 
only  just  begun,  and  being  especially  interested  to 
see  how  such  buildings  were  started,  I  rode  close 
up  to  watch  the  work.  A  roll  of  sycamore  down 
was  wound  around  a  twig,  and  the  bottom  of  the 
nest — the  floor — attached  to  the  underside  of  this 
beam ;  with  such  a  solid  foundation,  the  walls  could 
easily  be  supported. 

The  small  builder  came  when  Billy  and  I  were 
there.  She  did  not  welcome  us  as  old  friends,  but 
sat  down  on  her  floor  and  looked  at  us — and  I  never 
saw  her  there  again.  Worse  than  that,  she  took 
away  her  nest,  presumably  to  put  it  down  where 
she  thought  inquisitive  reporters  would  not  in 
trude.  I  was  disappointed  and  grieved,  having 
already  planned — on  the  strength  of  the  first  ex- 


228  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

perience — to  have  the  mother  hummer's  picture 
taken  when  she  was  feeding  her  young  on  the  nest. 

At  first  I  thought  this  suspicion  reflected  upon 
the  good  sense  of  humming-birds,  But  after  think 
ing  it  over  concluded  that  it  spoke  better  for  hum 
ming-birds  than  for  Billy  and  me.  If  this  were, 
as  I  supposed,  the  same  bird  who  had  to  brood  her 
young  with  Billy  gazing  at  the  end  of  her  bill,  and 
if  she  had  been  present  at  the  unlucky  moment 
when  he  got  the  oak  branches  tangled  in  the  pom 
mel  of  the  saddle,  although  her  branch  was  not 
among  them,  I  can  but  admire  her  for  moving  when 
she  found  that  the  Philistines  were  again  upon  her, 
for  her  new  house  was  hung  at  the  tip  of  a  branch 
Billy  might  easily  have  swept  in  passing. 

These  nests  had  all  been  very  low,  only  four  or 
five  feet  above  the  ground;  but  one  day  I  found 
young  in  one  of  the  common  tree-top  nests.  I  could 
see  it  through  the  branches.  Two  little  heads  stuck 
up  above  the  edge  like  two  small  Jacks-in-boxes. 
Billy  made  such  a  noise  under  the  oak  when  the 
bird  was  feeding  the  youngsters  that  I  took  him 
away  where  he  would  not  disturb  the  family,  and 
tied  him  to  an  oak  covered  with  poison  ivy,  for  he 
was  especially  fond  of  eating  it  and  the  poison 
did  not  affect  him. 

Before  the  old  hummer  flew  off,  she  picked  up  a 
tiny  white  feather  that  she  found  in  the  nest,  and 
wound  it  around  a  twig.  On  her  return,  in  the 
midst  of  her  feeding,  she  darted  down  and  set  the 
feather  flying;  Hut  as  it  got  away  from  her  she 
caught  it  again.  The  performance  was  repeated 
the  next  time  she  came  with  food;  but  she  did  it 
all  so  solemnly  I  could  not  tell  whether  she  were 


Hummers  229 

playing  or  trying  to  get  rid  of  something  that 
annoyed  her. 

She  fed  at  the  long  intervals  that  are  so  trying 
to  an  observer,  for  if  you  are  going  to  sit  for  hours 
with  your  eyes  glued  to  a  nest,  it  really  is  pleas 
ant  to  have  something  happen  once  in  a  while ! 
Though  the  mother  bird  did  not  go  to  the  nest 
often,  she  sometimes  flew  by,  and  once  the  sound 
of  her  wings  roused  the  young  and  they  called  out 
to  her  as  she  passed.  When  they  were  awake,  it 
was  amusing  to  see  the  little  midgets  stick  out 
their  long  thread-like  tongues,  preen  their  pin- 
feathers  and  stretch  their  wings  over  the  nest. 

One  fine  morning  when  I  went  to  the  oak  I  heard 
a  faint  squeak,  and  saw  something  fluttering  up  in 
the  tree.  When  the  mother  came  she  buzzed  about 
as  though  not  liking  the  looks  of  things,  for  her 
children  were  out  of  the  nest,  and  behold ! — a  horse 
and  rider  were  under  her  tree.  She  tried  to  coax 
the  unruly  nestlings  to  follow  her  up  into  the  up 
per  stories,  but  they  would  not  go. 

Although  not  ready  to  be  led,  one  of  the  in 
fants  soon  felt  that  it  would  be  nice  to  go  alone. 
When  a  bird  first  leaves  the  nest  it  goes  about  very 
gingerly,  but  this  little  fellow  soon  began  to  feel  his 
strength  and  the  excitement  of  his  freedom.  He 
wiped  his  tongue  on  a  branch,  and  then,  to  my  as 
tonishment,  his  wings  began  to  whirl  as  though  he 
were  getting  up  steam,  and  presently  they  lifted 
him  from  his  twig,  and  he  went  whirring  off  as 
softly  as  a  humming-bird  moth,  among  the  sprays. 
His  nerves  were  evidently  on  edge,  for  he  looked 
around  at  the  sound  of  falling  leaves,  started  when 
Billy  sneezed,  and  turned  from  side  to  side  very  ap- 


230          Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

prehensively,  in  spite  of  his  out-in-the-world,  big- 
boy  airs.  He  may  have  felt  hampered  by  his  un 
used  wings,  for,  as  he  sat  there  waiting  for  his 
mother  to  come,  he  stroked  them  out  with  his  bill 
to  get  them  in  better  working  order.  That  done, 
he  leaned  over,  rounded  his  shoulders,  and  pecked 
at  a  leaf  as  if  he  were  as  grown-up  as  anybody. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  humming-birds'  nests  I  saw 
in  California,  three  are  particularly  noteworthy  be 
cause  of  their  positions.  One  cup  was  set  down  on 
what  looked  like  an  inverted  saucer,  in  the  form  of 
a  dark  green  oak  leaf  wound  with  cobweb.  That 
was  in  the  oak  beside  the  ranch  house.  Another 
one  was  on  a  branch  of  eucalyptus,  set  between  two 
leaves  like  the  knot  in  a  bow  of  stiff  ribbon.  To 
my  great  satisfaction,  the  photographer  was  able 
to  induce  the  bird  to  have  a  sitting  while  she  brood 
ed  her  eggs.  The  third  nest  belonged,  I  imagined, 
to  the  bird  who  took  up  her  floor  because  Billy  and 
I  looked  at  her.  If  she  were,  her  fate  was  certainly 
hard,  for  her  eggs  were  taken  by  some  one,  boy  or 
beast.  Her  nest  was  most  skillfully  supported.  It 
was  fastened  like  the  seat  of  a  swing  between  two 
twigs  no  larger  than  knitting  needles,  at  the  end  of 
a  long,  drooping  branch.  It  was  a  unique  pleasure 
to  see  the  tiny  bird  sit  in  her  swing  and  be  blown 
by  the  wind.  Sometimes  she  went  circling  around 
as  though  riding  in  a  merry-go-round ;  and  at  oth 
ers  the  wind  blew  so  hard  her  round  boat  rose  and 
fell  like  a  little  ship  at  sea. — From  "A-Birding  on 
a  Bronco. " 


The  Foothills  231 

THE  FOOTHILLS 

BY  STEWAET  EDWARD  WHITE 

A  T  once  our  spirits  rose.  We  straightened  in 
**  our  saddles,  we  breathed  deep,  we  joked. 
The  country  was  scorched  and  sterile;  the  wagon 
trail,  almost  paralleling  the  mountains  themselves 
on  a  long,  easy  slant  toward  the  high  country,  was 
ankle  deep  in  dust;  the  ravines  were  still  dry  of 
water.  But  it  was  not  the  Inferno,  and  that  one 
fact  sufficed.  After  a  while  we  crossed  high  above 
a  river  which  dashed  white  water  against  black 
rocks,  and  so  were  happy. 

The  country  went  on  changing.  The  change  was 
always  imperceptible,  as  in  growth,  or  the  stealthy 
advance  of  autumn  through  the  woods.  From  mo 
ment  to  moment  one  could  detect  no  alteration. 
Something  intangible  was  taken  away;  something 
impalpable  added.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  we 
were  in  the  oaks  and  sycamores ;  at  the  end  of  two 
we  were  in  the  pines  and  low  mountains  of  Bret 
Harte's  Forty-Nine. 

The  wagon  trail  felt  ever  farther  and  farther  in 
to  the  hills.  It  had  not  been  used  as  a  stage  route 
for  years,  but  the  freighting  kept  it  deep  with  dust, 
that  writhed  and  twisted  and  crawled  lazily  knee- 
high  to  our  horses,  like  a  living  creature.  We  felt 
the  swing  and  sweep  of  the  route.  The  boldness  of 
its  stretches,  the  freedom  of  its  reaches  for  the  op 
posite  slope,  the  wride  curve  of  its  horseshoes,  all 
filled  us  with  the  breath  of  an  expansion  which 
as  yet  the  broad,  low  country  only  suggested. 

Everything  here  was  reminiscent  of  long  ago. 
17 


232  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

The  very  names  hinted  stories  of  the  Argonauts. 
Coarse  Gold  Gulch,  Whiskey  Creek  Grub  Gulch, 
Fine  Gold  Post  Office  in  turn  we  passed.  Occa 
sionally,  with  a  fine  round  dash  into  the  open,  the 
trail  drew  one  side  to  a  stage  station.  The  huge 
stables,  the  wide  corrals,  the  low  living  houses, 
each  shut  in  its  dooryard  of  blazing  riotous  flow 
ers,  were  all  familiar.  Only  lacked  the  old-fash 
ioned  Concord  coach,  from  which  to  descend  Jack 
Hamlin  or  Judge  StarHottle.  As  for  M'liss,  she 
was  there,  sunbonnet  and  all. 

Down  in  the  gulch  bottoms  were  the  old  placer 
diggings.  Elaborate  little  ditches  for  the  deflection 
of  water,  long  cradles  for  the  separation  of  gold, 
decayed  rockers,  and  shining  in  the  sun  the  tons 
and  tons  of  pay  dirt  which  had  been  turned  over 
pound  by  pound  in  the  concentrating  of  its  treas 
ure.  Some  of  the  old  cabins  still  stood.  It  was  all 
deserted  now,  save  for  the  few  who  kept  trail  for 
the  freighters  or  who  tilled  the  restricted  bottom 
lands  of  the  flats.  Road-runners  racked  away  down 
the  paths ;  squirrels  scurried  over  worn-out  placers ; 
jays  screamed  and  chattered  in  and  out  of  the 
abandoned  cabins.  Strange  and  shy  little  creatures 
and  birds,  reassured  by  the  silence  of  many  years, 
had  ventured  to  take  to  themselves  the  engines  of 
man's  industry.  And  the  warm  California  sun 
embalmed  it  all  in  a  peaceful  forgetfulness. 

Now  the  trees  grew  bigger,  and  the  hills  more 
impressive.  We  should  call  them  mountains  in  the 
East.  Pines  covered  them  to  the  top,  straight, 
slender  pines  with  voices.  The  little  flats  were 
planted  with  great  oaks.  When  we  rode  through 
them,  they  shut  out  the  hills,  so  that  we  might  have 


The  Foothills  233 

imagined  ourselves  in  a  level,  wooded  country. 
There  insisted  the  effect  of  limitless  tree-grown 
plains,  which  the  warm,  drowsy  sun,  the  park-like 
landscape,  corroborated.  And  yet  the  contrast  of 
the  clear  atmosphere  and  the  sharp  air  equally  in 
sisted  on  the  mountains.  It  was  a  strange  and  de 
licious  double  effect,  a  contradiction  of  natural  im 
pressions,  a  negation  of  our  right  to  generalize 
from  previous  experience. 

Always  the  trail  wound  up  and  up.  Never  was  it 
steep ;  never  did  it  command  an  outlook.  Yet  we 
felt  that  at  last  we  were  rising,  were  leaving  the 
level  of  the  Inferno,  were  nearing  the  threshold  of 
the  high  country. 

•Mountain  peoples  came  to  the  edges  of  their 
clearings  and  gazed  at  us,  responding  solemnly  to 
our  salutations.  They  dwelt  in  cabins  and  held 
to  agriculture  and  herding  of  the  wild  mountain 
cattle.  From  them  we  heard  of  the  high  country 
to  which  we  were  bound.  They  spoke  of  it  as  you 
or  I  would  speak  of  interior  Africa,  as  something 
inconceivably  remote,  to  be  visited  only  Hy  the  ad* 
venturous,  an  uninhabited  realm  of  vast  magni 
tude  and  unknown  dangers.  In  the  same  way  they 
spoke  of  the  plains.  Only  the  narrow  pine-clad 
strip  between  the  two  and  six  thousand  feet  of 
elevation  they  felt  to  be  their  natural  environ 
ment.  In  it  they  found  the  proper  conditions  for 
their  existence.  Out  of  it  those  conditions  lacked. 
They  were  as  much  a  localized  product  as  are  cer 
tain  plants  which  occur  only  at  certain  altitudes. 
Also  were  they  densely  ignorant  of  trails  and 
routes  outside  of  their  own  little  districts. 

All  this,  you  will  understand,  was  in  what  is 


234  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

known  as  the  low  country.  The  landscape  was  still 
brown;  the  streams  but  trickles;  sage  brush  clung 
to  the  ravines ;  the  valley  quail  whistled  on  the  side 
hills. 

But  one  day  we  came  suddenly  into  the  big  pines 
and  rocks;  and  that  very  night  we  made  our  first 
camp  in  a  meadow  typical  of  the  mountains  we  had 
dreamed  about. — From  * '  The  Mountains. ' ' 


"THE  JOY  OF  THE  HILLS " 

BY  EDWIN  MAEKHAM 

I  RIDE  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride ; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes — 

Lightly  I  sweep 

From  steep  to  steep : 

Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky ; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse 's  flanks ; 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks ; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass ; 
A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 

Life's  hoard  of  regret — 

All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 

Grind  on,  0  cities,  grind ; 

I  leave  you  a  blur  behind.  . 


Desert  Animals  235 

I  am  lifted  elate — the  skies  expand: 
Here  the  world's  heaped  gold  is  a  pile  of  sand. 
Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their  narrow  walls : 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls ! 

I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream — I  swing 
Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing ! 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word : 
My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart  a  bird ! 

—From    "The    Man  AVith    the    Hoe    and    Other 
Poems." 


DESERT  ANIMALS 

BY  JOHN  C.  VAX  DYKE 

THE  Indian  and  the  plant  must  have  some  water. 
They  cannot  go  without  it  indefinitely.  And 
just  there  the  desert  animals  seem  to  fit  their  en 
vironment  a  little  snugger  than  either  plant  or 
human.  For,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  many  of 
them  get  no  water  at  all.  There  are  sections  of  the 
desert,  fifty  or  more  miles  square,  where  there  is 
not  a  trace  of  water  in  river,  creek,  arroyo  or  pock 
et,  where  there  is  never  a  drop  of  falling  dew ;  and 
where  the  two  or  three  showers  of  rain  each  year 
sink  into  the  sand  and  are  lost  in  half  an  hour 
after  they  have  fallen.  Yet  that  fifty-mile  tract 
of  sand  and  rock  supports  its  animal,  reptile  and  in 
sect  life  just  the  same  as  a  similar  tract  in  Illinois 
or  Florida.  How  the  animals  endure,  how — even 

[From  "The  Desert."    Copyright,  1901,  by  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons.    By  permission  of  the  publishers.] 


236  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

on  the  theory  of  getting  used  to  it — the  jack-rabbit, 
the  ground  squirrel,  the  rat,  and  the  gopher  can 
live  for  months  without  even  the  moisture  from 
green  vegetation,  is  one  of  the  mysteries.  A  mirror 
held  to  the  nose  of  a  desert  rabbit  will  show  a  moist 
breath-mark  on  the  glass.  The  moisture  came  out 
of  the  rabbit,  is  coming  out  of  him  every  few  sec 
onds  of  the  day;  and  there  is  not  a  drop  of  mois 
ture  going  into  him.  Evidently  the  ancient  axiom : 
"Out  of  nothing,  nothing  comes/'  is  all  wrong. 

It  is  said  in  answer  that  the  jack-rabbit  gets 
moisture  from  roots,  cactus  lobes  and  the  like.  And 
the  reply  is  that  you  find  him  where  there  are  no 
roots  but  greasewood,  and  no  cactus  at  all.  Besides 
there  is  no  evidence  from  an  examination  of  his 
stomach  that  he  ever  eats  anything  but  dried  grass, 
bark  and  sage  leaves.  But  if  the  matter  is  a  trifle 
doubtful  about  the  rabbit  on  account  of  his  travel 
ing  capacities,  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  about  the 
ground  squirrels,  the  rock  squirrels,  and  the  prairie 
dogs.  None  of  them  ever  gets  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  from  his  hole  in  his  life,  except  possibly 
when  migrating.  And  the  circuit  about  each  hole 
is  usually  bare  of  everything  except  dried  grass. 
There  is  no  moisture  to  be  had.  The  prairie  dog  is 
not  found  on  the  desert,  but  in  Wyoming  and  Mon 
tana  there  are  villages  of  them  on  the  grass  prai 
ries,  with  no  water,  root,  lobe  or  leaf  within  miles 
of  them.  The  old  theory  of  the  prairie  dog  digging 
his  hole  down  to  water  has  no  basis  in  fact.  Pa 
tience,  a  strong  arm  and  a  spade  will  get  to  the 
bottom  of  his  burrow  in  half  an  hour. 

All  the  desert  animals  know  the  meaning  of  a 
water  famine,  and  even  those  that  are  pronounced 


Desert  Animals  237 

water  drinkers  know  how  to  get  on  with  the  min 
imum  supply.  The  mule-deer,  whose  cousin  in  the 
Adirondaeks  goes  down  to  water  every  night,  lives 
in  the  desert  mountains,  month  in  and  month  out 
with  nothing  more  watery  to  quench  his  thirst  than 
a  lobe  of  the  prickly  pear  or  a  joint  of  cholla.  But 
he  is  naturally  fond  of  green  vegetation,  and  in  the 
early  morning  he  usually  leaves  the  valley  and 
climbs  the  mountains  where  with  goats  and  moun 
tain  sheep  he  browses  on  the  twigs  of  shrub  and 
tree. 

The  coyote  likes  water  too,  but  he  puts  up  with 
sucking  a  nest  of  quail  eggs,  eating  some  ines- 
quite  beans,  or  at  best  absorbing  the  blood  from 
some  rabbit.  The  wild  cat  will  go  for  weeks  with 
out  more  moisture  than  the  blood  of  birds  or  liz 
ards,  and  then,  perhaps,  after  long  thirst,  he  will 
come  to  a  water  pocket  in  the  rocks  to  lap  only  a 
handful,  doing  it  with  an  angry,  snarling  snap  as 
though  he  disliked  it  and  was  doing  it  under  com 
pulsion.  The  gray  wolf  is  too  much  a  traveler  to 
depend  upon  any  one  locality.  He  will  run  fifty 
miles  in  a  night  and  be  back  tiefore  morning. 
"Whether  he  gets  water  or  not  is  impossible  to  as 
certain. 

The  badger,  the  coon  and  the  bear  are  very  sel 
dom  seen  in  the  more  arid  regions.  They  are  not, 
strictly  speaking,  desert  animals  because  unfitted  to 
endure  desert  hardships.  They  are  naturally  great 
eaters  and  sleepers,  loving  cool  weather  and  their 
own  fatness;  and  to  that  the  desert  is  sharply  op 
posed.  There  is  nothing  fat  in  the  land  of  sand 
and  cactus.  Animal  life  is  lean  and  gaunt:  if  it 
sleeps  at  all  it  is  with  one  eye  open ;  and  as  for  heat 


238  Pathway  to  Western  Literature 

it  cares  very  little  about  it.  For  the  first  law  of 
the  desert  to  which  animal  life  of  every  kind  pays 
allegiance  is  the  law  of  endurance  and  abstinence. 
After  that  requirement  is  fulfilled  special  needs 
produce  the  peculiar  qualities  and  habits  of  the  in 
dividual.— From  "The  Desert. " 


LEGEND  OF  THE  CHINA  LILY 

BY  IDAH  MEACHAM  STROBEIDGE 

LONG  ago — so  long  that  the  world,  and  all  in  it, 
was  new;  even  as  all  now  is  old,  very  old — 
there  dwelt  in  that  oldest  of  all  lands,  China,  a 
man  great,  and  good,  and  with  money  and  posses 
sions  too  plentiful  to  be  counted.  And  he  had 
wives — two,  three,  or  four,  as  a  rich  man  may.  But 
only  the  children  of  the  first  two  wives  have  to  do 
with  this  story.  Each  wife  bore  a  son.  And  the 
first-born — he  that  was  the  son  of  the  first  wife — 
was  the  father's  favorite.  But  the  second  son  it 
was  who  loved  the  father  best.  This  the  sire  did 
not  know,  for  the  boy  hid  his  great  love;  yet  ever 
obeying  to  the  most  minute  particular  each  request 
asked  of  him.  For  goodness,  and  honor,  and  duty, 
and  truth,  for  loyalty,  and  for  love,  this  son  was 
one  man  among  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand. 
But  the  father  went  about  with  an  invisible  fold 
of  cloth  bound  across  his  eyes  by  an  evil  spirit, 
which  blinded  him  to  this  noble  son's  worthiness. 
And  the  evil  spirit  removed  the  bandage  whenever 
the  father  looked  on  the  elder  son,  and  put,  instead, 
before  his  eyes  a  magic  glass  which  made  that  son's 


Legend  of  the  China  Lily  239 

vices  seem  as  virtues,  and  his  treachery  as  loyalty, 
and  his  lies  as  truth,  and  his  deceitful  bearing  as 
love.  So  the  father  was  ever  deceived,  and  lived 
out  the  measure  of  long  life,  believing  that  good 
was  evil  and  that  that  which  was  evil  was  good. 

Then,  when  the  measure  of  his  days  was  done,  he 
died;  and  the  people  mourned.  For  he  had  been 
well  beloved  for  his  many  virtues  and  honored  for 
his  greatness  and  his  riches. 

Now,  when  his  father  died  the  elder  son  fell  to 
lamenting;  and  he  lamented  loudly  and  long  the 
first  day,  and  lamented  less  loud  the  second  day, 
and  the  third  day  lamented  not  at  all.  For  his 
heart  was  bad;  and  in  secret  he  rejoiced  that  his 
sire  was  dead,  for  now  all  these  great  possessions 
would  be  his  own.  Money,  and  hills  where  the  tea 
plants  grew,  and  houses  in  the  village,  and  rice 
swamps,  and  riches  of  many  kinds — much  of  all 
— were  his  own.  All  that  his  father  had  left  was 
his.  All  but  one  small  bit  of  waste  land  far  up  on 
the  side  of  a  great  mountain.  A  barren  tract  up 
there  in  a  hollow  of  the  heights  was  deemed  of  no 
worth;  for  it  had  never  grown  tea-tree,  nor  rice, 
nor  grass,  nor  flower,  nor  weed.  So  this  was  the 
father's  bequest  to  the  younger  son.  For  the  law 
was  that  to  every  son  a  man  had,  must  be  given  a 
portion — little  or  great — of  his  lands  when  he  died ; 
and  to  this  son,  to  whom  he  wished  to  leave  noth 
ing,  he  could  give  no  less. 

To  the  elder  and  favorite  went  all  else ;  but  to  the 
younger,  who  was  worthier  than  any  other  child 
of  China,  was  given  but  this  tract  covered  with  fine 
bits  of  broken  rock,  where  no  green  thing  has  ever 


240  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

grown  and  where  the  ground  was  dry  and  forbid 
ding. 

Yet  against  the  unjust  division  this  noble  son  re 
belled  not ;  but  only  mourned  the  father  that  was 
dead.  Mourned  sincerely— mourned  Avithout  ceas 
ing  and  without  comfort — that  the  beloved  and 
honorable  being  was  gone  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
gaze. 

Of  the  injustice  done  him — of  the  smallness  of 
his  portion  of  the  inheritance — he  thought  little. 
His  father  was  dead;  his  father  whom  he  had  so 
loved — whom  he  still  loved  beyond  all  expression — 
was  gone  from  him.  Nothing  else  mattered. 

And  days  went  by.  The  elder  one  went  abroad 
among  his  newly  acquired  possessions,  saying: 
' '  This  is  mine,  now ;  and  this,  and  this  also. ' '  And, 
because  he  was  what  he  was,  he  forgot  the  dead 
man  whose  gift  all  these  things  had  been. 

But  his  brother,  whose  heart  was  heavy  with 
grief,  and  who  counted  not  the  value  of  his  por 
tion,  nor  the  lack,  only  longed  to  see  his  father's 
face  once  more. 

Then  the  new  moon  came  and  looked  down  upon 
them  both — the  evil  son  and  the  son  who  was  good. 
And  the  moon  grew  to  the  full — lessened — and 
waxed  old.  And  in  the  old  of  the  moon  the  younger 
son  journeyed  to  the  mountain  where  his  poor  in 
heritance  lay;  to  the  miserable  and  barren  land 
which  was  awaiting  him. 

His  eyes  looked  with  sadness  upon  it;  not  be 
cause  of  its  barrenness,  but  that  it  was  the  last  gift 
his  father  had  bestowed  upon  him. 

His  heart  swelled  with  sorrow ;  and  tears  which 
scorched  and  stung  flowed  down  his  cheeks  as  he 


Legend  of  the  China  Lily  241 

flung  himself  on  the  ground  in  his  grief.  He  lay 
there  long,  so  long  a  time  he  had  lost  all  count  of 
the  hours,  mourning  as  only  they  can  mourn  who 
are  true  of  heart. 

It  was  a  great  night,  full  of  stars.  A  night  when 
they  burn  like  fire  in  the  heavens.  A  band — filmy 
and  far — stretched  across  the  arc  like  the  ragged, 
white  smoke  in  the  wake  of  a  fast-speeding  steamer. 
Meteors  shot  through  the  infinite  blue-black  depth, 
and  the  vastness  of  space  could  be  felt,  like  the 
presence  of  a  thing  alive,  in  the  vitalized  atmos 
phere. 

Though  he  did  not  raise  his  head,  he  was  aware 
that  something  most  strange  had  happened. 
Though  hearing  no  sound,  yet  he  felt  near  him  a 
presence. 

Then  a  voice  spoke  to  him  from  out  of  the  heav 
ens;  and  its  vibrations  fell  upon  his  ear  like  the 
multitudinous  cadence  of  birds  in  song. 

""Why  weep  you?"  the  voice  asked,  and  he  re 
plied  : 

"Because  I  loved  my  father  and  he  is  dead." 

' '  Though  he  is  gone  hence,  he  loves  you  in  meas 
ure  now  as  you  have  ever  loved  him, ' '  he  heard  the 
voice  say ;  and  it  sounded  like  the  ringing  of  silver 
bells.  And  now  his  heart  bounded  within  him  with 
a  great  thrill  of  joy  that  a  father's  love  was  at  last 
his.  Yet  it  was  in  fear  and  trembling  that  he  asked, 
f  alteringly : 

"Even  as  he  loved  my  brother?" 

"Even  as  he  loved  your  brother  once;  Hut  he 
loves  not  your  brother  now,"  the  voice  of  music 
answered  him.  "The  evil  bandage  across  his  eyes 
has  been  removed,  and  the  magic  glass  is  broken. 


242  Pathway  to  Western  Literature    • 

He  now  sees  into  his  children's  hearts  with  the 
penetrating  eye  which  belongs  to  the  dead,  and  he 
knows  the  truth  at  last.  Weep  no  more;  your 
father  sees  you — touches  you — loves  you.  And  be 
cause  of  your  faithfulness  and  loyalty  through  all 
trials,  your  reward  shall  be  great.  Here,  where 
only  sterility  has  been,  shall  henceforth  be  bounti 
ful  yield.  Never  again  will  the  earth  here  be  dry 
and  barren ;  for  your  tears  have  wetted  the  ground 
so  that  for  a  thousand  times,  a  thousand  years,  a 
generous  moisture  shall  keep  the  plant-roots  health 
ily  growing.  The  prayers  you  have  breathed  here 
for  the  dead  shall  ward  off  all  evil  from  the  living 
— from  you  and  the  family  that  will  be  yours.  The 
warmth  of  your  true  heart,  as  it  has  lain  beating 
and  breaking  here  on  the  earth,  shall  call  forth 
blossoms  of  unearthly  beauty. 

"Dig  into  the  soil,  0  most  dutiful  of  dutiful 
sons,  and  tell  me  what  it  is  that  you  find." 

And  in  the  starlight  the  young  man  began  scrap 
ing  with  his  fingers ;  and  digging,  he  found  an  un 
known  bulb. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  voice. 

"A  strange,  new  kind  of  root,"  he  answered;  "I 
do  not  know  its  name,"  and  he  covered  it  over 
again  with  the  earth  and  bits  of  broken  rock.  Then 
once  more  the  voice  of  sweet  music  spoke : 

' '  Out  of  the  land  from  whence  your  father  looks 
down  on  you  here  these  roots  came,  sent  by  him  in 
his  remorseful  love;  and  the  flower  which  grows 
from  the  root  and  stalk  is  called  the  Flower  of 
Filial  Affection.  Go  and  come  again  the  third  day 
at  noon!" 

Then  the  young  man  went  away.    And  when,  at 


Legend  of  the  China  Lily  243 

noontide  of  the  second  day,  he  came  again,  he  was 
amazed,  for  green  shoots  had  sprung  up  from 
among  the  stones  that  were  now  wetted  with  water 
which  oozed  from  the  ground. 

The  voice  he  had  heard  before  spoke  at  his  elbow. 

"  What  see  you?" 

And  he  answered:  "I  see  the  earth  rich  with 
plant-life  where  it  was  barren  before." 

"Even  as  your  father  now  sees  the  living  ever 
green  truth  of  your  soul,  where  once  his  blinded 
eyes  saw  but  barrenness !  Mourn  no  more ;  go,  now, 
and  come  again  to-morrow,  which  will  be  the  third 
day,  at  early  morning  light  when  the  sun  first 
shines  here  on  the  mountain." 

At  early  morning  of  the  third  day  he  came,  as 
he  was  bidden ;  and  lo !  the  air  was  weighted  heavy 
with  delicious  perfume.  It  seemed  to  drop  down 
from  the  heavens  and  fall,  fold  upon  fold,  on  the 
earth  in  inexpressible,  ineffable  sweetness. 

All  about  him  green  plants  were  in  bloom.  From 
the  root  came  the  plant,  and  the  plant  bore  a  beau 
tiful  flower.  From  filial  love,  rooted  deep  in  the 
heart  of  a  man,  springs  all  that  is  noble  and  good ; 
and  the  reward  of  virtues  in  a  good  son  shall  be 
made  manifest.  The  whole  earth  seemed  to  be  cov 
ered  over  with  blossoms  of  waxen  purity — wax- 
white  blossoms  were  atiout  him  where  he  stood,  like 
the  flowers  of  heaven  that  we  dream  we  see  under 
the  full  moon. 

TThite  as  snow  is  white,  with  a  center  all  yellow 
as  gold ; .  sweet  as  orange  flowers,  and  altogether 
lovely.  It  was  as  though  a  feather  from  some  pass 
ing  angel's  wing  had  fluttered  down  to  fall  in  the 
mud  and  mire  of  a  sty. 


244  Pathivay  to  Western  Literature 

A  cup  of  ivory  with  a  heart  of  gold. 

All  the  world  seemed  snowed  under  petals  of 
fragrance ;  and  as  he  gazed  in  awe  at  the  wondrous 
beauty  of  the  scene,  he  shook  with  the  intensity  of 
his  emotions.  Moved  to  helpless  weakness  by  the 
spirituality  of  what  he  saw,  he  fell  upon  his  knees 
in  worship  of  the  great  Power  that  had  caused  such 
exquisite  loveliness  to  grow,  and  bowed  his  fore 
head  on  the  ground. 

Then,  out  of  the  heavenly  surroundings,  spoke 
the  voice. 

"My  son,"  it  said,  tenderly,  and  oh!  so  sweetly; 
and  now  he  recognized  the  loved  accents,  for  it  was 
his  father's  voice  that  was  speaking — that  had 
been  speaking  since  the  hour  he  had  first  come  to 
mourn  on  the  mountain — "Oh,  my  son — son  be 
loved — once  a  burden  you  bore,  bore  it  with  un 
complaining  lips.  Life  has  set  no  greater  task  for 
a  child  than  to  be  loyal  and  loving  in  the  face  of 
injustice  and  misunderstanding.  So,  for  this,  your 
reward  shall  be  great.  Because  of  your  heart's 
loving  loyalty  these  flowers  shall  henceforth  be 
made  sacred  to  your  race,  and  shall  grow  only  upon 
this  land  of  yours,  and  in  that  way  be  only  for 
your  family.  Nowhere  else — east  or  west,  north  or 
south — shall  they  ever  be  made  to  grow  in  the  earth 
to  the  perfection  of  blossoming;  yet  here  on  this 
tear-bedewed  land  shall  they  forever  thrive,  on  this 
spot  made  sacred  by  your  faithfulness.  Yours 
shall  they  be  only;  yours,  and  your  sons',  and  your 
sons'  sons',  through  all  coming  generations. 

"The  bulbs  shall  grow  for  you  and  yours  to  sell 
— for  others  to  buy;  and  riches  past  all  counting 
shall  be  yours.  Greater  riches  will  be  yours  than 


Legend  of  the  China  Lily  245 

can  ever  come  to  him  who  is  your  brother.  And 
now  I  go.  Even  as  I  love  you  I  bless  you;  going 
hence  to  await  you  in  that  land  from  whence  these 
white  blossoms  came.  Farewell,  beloved  child; 
most  honorable  son,  farewell!" 

And  the  one  who  was  prostrate  on  the  ground 
raised  himself  and — though  he  had  seen  nothing — 
knew  that  the  presence  had  gone,  and  that  he  was 
alone.  But  in  his  heart  was  comfort  and  everlast 
ing  peace. 

Only  a  legend.  Only  a  story  made  by  the  fairies 
for  children  and  these  simple-minded  folk,  who 
saw  its  poetic  charm  as  did  I.  Only  a  tale  brought 
out  of  lily-land  for  those  to  hear  who  have  the  poet- 
hearts  of  little  children. — From  "Land  of  Purple 
Shadows." 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


LD  21-95w-7,'3'; 


••  ^j; 


*.r 


YB   13472 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


